The Stars are Eternal
by An Extremely Agitated Hedgehog
Summary: Inside - A journey across the sea, a meeting of brothers, and a war that will change the world.
1. The Journey

The Stars are Eternal

 **Author's Note:** _Hello, everyone! Thanks for taking the time to look at my story. It means a lot to me. Anyway, this is going to be a hopefully very long project. When I first started looking at Hetalia fanfiction, I was sure that everyone and their mother had written a Revolutionary War fanfic, but to my surprise, I didn't find very many. So, here's my own rendition. I tried to make it deep without sounding super pretentious, but we'll see how it goes. I've rambled on enough, so please rate and review, and enjoy!_

 _Oh! Almost forgot! I really had fun doing research for this story, and wanted to show off my knowledge, so I've included some historical notes for things that I mention in passing. Feel free to read them if you want!_

* * *

"I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend...I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend..."

― **Neil Gaiman** ,

* * *

Chapter One

The Journey

April 11th, 1683

The waves on the never-ending ocean crashed against the hull of the sturdy galleon, which swayed in the wake of the flowing water. Arthur hung from the ratline, the braided knot of rope that ran from the deck of the ship to the crows nest above, hanging by his feet, held securely in place by the rope which he'd tangled around them. He breathed in the warm afternoon air, salty on his tongue. Yes, the "Pirate's life for him" was certainly the proper phrase to describe the pure bliss that he was feeling right now. Technically, he was a Privateer. He flew the King's flag, and plundered in his name. But that was fine, because he still got basic free reign of the boundless sea, and got to raid that bastard France's ship at his leisure.

For the first time in many years, there was relative peace in his empire. Everything, he'd thought, had been going pretty smoothly in "Merry-Old-England", until there was that nasty business with Oliver Cromwell and the "Commonwealth of England" (1). It had sprung up out of practically nowhere and plunged Britain into a ten-year-long stint as a Republic. This had, of course, not ended well, and eventually Charles II was declared King of England, Scotland, _and_ Ireland on top of that, and everyone, most of all Arthur, tried to forget that the last ten years had ever happened.

Arthur had been a bit agitated after that, he supposed. Part of it must have been the obvious shock associated with suddenly going from a Monarchy to a Republic, and then back to a Monarchy just as quickly, but part of it had also been the (What was it now, five?) groups of Christian denominations that had been making a big stink about just who was the holiest lately. The Irish were Catholic, the Scottish Presbyterian, and then there were these radical new groups, the Puritans and the Quakers, to shake things up, while all the while the Protestant Church of England tried it darndest to keep its ever-weakening grip on the populous. All of this together had caused Arthur to go through a bit of an identity crisis, he supposed, and so good old Charlie had suggested that Arthur take a short break from being the Anthropomorphic Personification of a whole bloody country and just try to be Arthur Kirkland for a while.

At first, he'd been a little confused by the question. He already _was_ Arthur Kirkland; it was impossible to be anyone one else. The King explained what he meant: "You need to take a holiday, Arthur. Your mood has been making it difficult for me to run _your_ country"

"I am _not_ being difficult!" Arthur interjected, mouth agape, but then promptly shut in when he realized just how ironic that statement combined with his usual testy tone of voice was.

Charles had laughed, then. Strained, tired as it was, it conveighed just how difficult it must have been to rule the empire in its present state. Arthur probably wasn't helping much with his whining and constant diatribes about his _bloody_ empire should, could, and would be run. Maybe the King was right, he should take a holiday.

"Why don't you go sailing?" The King suggested, and continued on when Arthur visibly perked up. He'd always loved sailing, from the first day he'd set foot on a fishing boat as a little lad. Such a long time ago, that was. "I could set you up with a ship and crew, and you could go privateering for a while. Destroy some French ships", he added hopefully, knowing very well that Arthur detested his perverted cousin. "Blow off some steam?"

"By jove, I think you might be onto something". Arthur had practically beamed at the thought of being on the open sea again, much to the King's maybe too obvious relief. But Arthur let it slide. He _had_ been a bit of an uptight wanker recently. And maybe it _would_ be nice to take a break for a few months.

Which had, by one way or another, led him to where he was now: dangling by his feet on the ratline, breathing in the ocean air and rocking in the waves. He wondered, briefly, what would happened if he simply never went back to Britain at all; if he simply wandered the sea forever. But he pushed that thought from his mind. He'd have to go back eventually, the empire would fall to bloody ruins without him there to keep it all in order.

"Captain!" One of the Swabbies down on the deck called up to him. He was young, maybe only six- or seventeen, with dark, freckled skin from working in the sun all day. Arthur opened his eyes and, still upside down, turned towards him. "There's a ship approaching starboard", he pointed off to the right side of the ship.

"Really?" Arthur asked. He grabbed the ropes and, with a little effort, managed to untangle his feet from the rigging. He flipped right side up and jumped the few feet down to the deck, his bare feet making a hollow thump on the rough wood. They hadn't seen another ship for weeks. The ocean was vast, bigger than one might think, and Arthur had been getting antsy. What would it be this time? Portuguese? Spanish? He hadn't tangled with Antonio in a while, might be fun to mess with the tomato-loving bugger.

He glanced over the starboard side of his galleon, and sure enough, a small schooner was bouncing over the small waves towards them. Arthur deflated. That one simply wouldn't be worth his time, his trained plunderer's eye could tell that right away. It would be low on defenses, hard to fit a big cannon on a small ship, and easy to take with the larger ship, but because of it's minuscule girth, there was almost no chance of valuable cargo.

Arthur waved it off. "It's too small. No point", he told the Swabbie, and was about to climb the ratline once again for a few more hours of totally meaningful contemplation when the Swabbie tapped him on the shoulder.

"But Captain, it's coming right towards us."

Taking a second glance, Arthur realized quickly that the Swabbie was indeed correct. The schooner was closer now, and what was that? One of the small figures was pulling the rigging, and the British flag came into view above the ship. "Oh", Arthur said, "We'll wait for them, then".

By then, most of the crew had heard the commotion and had begun to gather on the deck. Word travelled fast on a ship. They were a rag-tag crew, mostly ex-navy men and boys too young to yet join the said establishment. They had always thought that there was something strange about their Captain; he was a little _too_ young to be such an expert of the sea, and his wounds healed a little _too_ quickly. But that was really all part of being a Nation. Arthur had _looked_ twenty-five for the last two hundred years, and he couldn't really be killed by the normal means in which a man met his end. The crew knew none of this, of course; it was the world's best kept secret. But sailors were birds of a feather...err, well maybe fish of a scale was a more apt expression, but either way, sailors stuck together. They were able to overlook their Captain's oddities due to the fact that he simply a damned good Captain.

"Be so good to reef the sails, aye lads?" He commanded the crew, who obeyed without question, setting off a few, "Aye Cap'n!"s as they did so. This was exactly why Arthur preferred piracy over the navy. In the navy, it was all formal and stuffy. You obeyed your superior because, well, he was your _superior_. But on a Pirate's crew, you did what your Captain told you because there was a bond of mutual respect between Captain and crew. Because if your Captain was a wanker, you could always just kill him and elect a new one. Luckily for Arthur, there were no signs of mutiny on _his_ boat. It was a sense of pride for him that someone trusted him not because of who he was, but because of what he could do.

The crew got to work right away, yanking ropes and chains this way and that, and soon the sails collapsed against the mast. The schooner was approaching quickly now, it's small size enabling the wind to blow it over the water much faster than the galleon (which Arthur had named Old Bess) could ever have moved. Arthur ran across the deck and retrieved his black, leather boots from where they'd been lying on some ropes, and stuck them on haphazardly. He wanted to be prepared in case this encounter went sideways.

Gliding silently through the water, the schooner pulled up alongside Old Bess. The crew all stood on the starboard side looking down on the boat, an intimidating force to behold. Arthur himself stood at the front of the crowd, one hand on the thin blade tied to his waist. "Who goes there?" He asked the figures on the smaller vessel.

"Captain Arthur Kirkland?" One of them asked, shielding his eyes against the sun which rested behind the galleon.

"That would be me", Arthur smirked.

"The King requests an audience", the man on the boat said. Arthur heard the crew behind him break into whispers. The King wants to meet with our Captain? Kirkland must be a pretty important guy to talk to the King of bloody England.

"Alright", Arthur nodded, trying to act non-chalantly, but secretly beaming with pride because his crew thought he was important. Which he was, it was true. But most of the time, he didn't really care what the common herd thought of him. His crew though, they were the ones he really wanted to impress. "We'll just head back to Merry Old England then", he continued, about to turn back to the crowd to give the order.

The man on the boat interrupted. "The King thinks that it will be faster if you come with us". He sounded grim. Because by faster, he really meant safer. The empire had made a lot of enemies in its day, many of whom would like to see Arthur out of the picture entirely.

"Sounds fine", Arthur shrugged. And with that, he patted the side of his ship ("Goodbye old girl") and was about to jump onto the schooner, when the Swabbie interrupted "But what about _us?_ What will _we_ do now?"

"You elect a new Captain and keeps going, mates. You're a fine crew. You don't need me. It's simple", he grabbed his tri-corner hat, the ostentatious one with the huge white feather in it that he'd earlier discarded on the top of a barrel. "Here, you be Captain", he said, placing the hat firmly on the Swabbie's head. The replacement wouldn't last, he knew that. A Swabbie of all people wouldn't make a good Captain, but he wanted to make an unforgettable exit. How else would they remember him?

"Cheerio, chaps", Arthur used the stunned silence of the crew to jump onto the schooner without any hindrances. He waved as the schooner pulled away and began to move back towards land.

Arthur smiled. It had been a good holiday, what with the sword fights and swinging from ropes across the deadly sea towards a foreign vessel, but now it was time for him to get back to work.

"How long have I been gone?" He asked the man at the helm, who seemed to be in charge of the whole operation.

"About two years".

Two years? Arthur could have sworn that it had only been a month or two, tops. Time certainly did fly when you weren't thinking about it.

"Where _are_ we headed?" Arthur asked.

"To London, Mr. Britain", the man replied. "You _do_ have an audience with the King, after all".

* * *

Slowly, taking their time as rich people often did, the most influential lords and ladies of British society left the throne room. Their voices echoed off of the walls of the hollow space, which were covered in tapestries and murals done by some of the finest artists in the empire. Most depicted great battles and victories from the past, most of which Arthur was present for, or remembered hearing about at the very least.

A few of the distinguished guests nodded at Arthur, or conversed briefly with him before taking their leave, but overall, he didn't attract much attention. And that was the way he liked it. The less people noticed him, the less likely they were to wonder about his incredible longevity.

"You know, you look just like your grandfather", one of the older lords of some place or another commented as he past Arthur. Luckily, he was completely senile, at least he gave that impression when he was talking to birds or insisted in the middle of dead winter that he wanted to go out on a stroll, but in this case he was right. Arthur _did_ look like his Grandfather because technically, he _was_ his own grandpa. He had been posing in the British court scene as a member of the Kirkland family for centuries.

"Spitting image, really", the old man muttered as a younger relative guided him away with an apologetic look on her youthful face. Arthur waved her off. She looked relieved, and ambled over to the great double doors leading out of the throne room with the old man in tow.

It was too bad, really, that the old man had gotten to be that way. Arthur remembered when he was younger, a jovial man, and a wonderful person to nip down to the pub with for a few drinks when the weather was especially bitter. That was one of the drawbacks of being a nation, Arthur supposed. As long as his country thrived, Arthur would never grow old, or die, like all of his friends and really, everyone around him, leaving him powerless to attempt to join them. That very reason was the cause of why Arthur tried not to get close to anyone, because they just had to go and die on you anyway. So what was the point?

Arthur had arrived a little early, though court had officially ended at half past two. It was now three o'clock, and the room probably wouldn't be completely empty until quarter to four. But while he didn't get attached, Arthur still loved to observe. These were the finest people of _his_ country after all. He wouldn't be very much of a personification if he didn't take an interest now, would he?

Of course, he _did_ have actual business to attend to. His audience with Charlie was scheduled right after court, but they couldn't very well discuss top secret affairs with a horde of loose-lipped nobles around, waiting for the juiciest piece of gossip to fall into their laps. So Arthur contented himself with observing the crowd. It was so hilarious to him how all of these people were so far into their own little worlds that they worried about things like which dress or tie would go best with this hat when their were bigger problems like colonists over in the New World getting slaughtered by savages and starving to death. It amused him more than anything. Maybe, in his old age, he was becoming curmudgeonly. He didn't really know.

Gradually, the chatter and noise died down as the mass of people with nothing better to do left the throne room. Arthur didn't hold it against them, never could. _They_ didn't know that a top secret meeting would commence just as soon as they decided that it might be time to leave, so felt no need to hurry.

Charles II (2), King of not just one or two, but three countries, sat utop his ornate, bejeweled throne. Arthur thought privately that it looked really uncomfortable. He looked tired, even more so than when Arthur had left, with great bags under his eyes highlighted by the many creases and folds that lined his aging face. Arthur had seen this happen to many a monarch; his, France's, everyone's really. Eventually, the toil and labor of running a country caught up with a monarch, who then grew old and died. Just like everyone else. They were only mortal after all; Sometimes Arthur forgot that. This one still made him sad, though. Charlie had been a good King as far as King's go. He was certainly no Queen Elizabeth, but then again, Arthur was sure that never in a million years would anyone be able to top Old Bess in Queenliness.

"Hello, Arthur", the King said to the empty room, and Arthur emerged from behind a marble pillar where he'd been semi-hiding/skulking. "It's been a while, my old friend. Did you have a nice holiday?"

Arthur nodded. "Most certainly. I find that a little sea air will do anyone good". He approached the throne, and bowed deeply before the King.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Kirkland! You of all people need not bow to me. Frankly, I'm sick of all the bowing and scraping before my excellence all of the damn bloody time". The King rolled his eyes.

Arthur smiled and stood, one man alone in front of the great throne, the symbol of British superiority. "Yes, my liege", he smirked, for sure that he was getting under the King's skin.

The King graciously ignored the jibe. "Now as much as I've missed your antics, it's time to get down to business. I called you back for a reason, Arthur".

"I figured as much. Having fun without me, eh?"

"Actually, it was quite peaceful not having someone hanging over your shoulder all day", the King confessed, shrugging. "But anyway, I've been thinking a lot about the colonies lately. Have you ever been to the colonies, Arthur?"

"Briefly", said Arthur, "Maybe ... sixty years ago?" That had not, Arthur would freely admit, been very fun. He hadn't gone for England, or the empire. Plymouth had only loosely been a British colony at that point, and the Nations had all been very interested on if the venture had succeeded. So Arthur had hired a ship and traveled with Spain, the Netherlands, and, he thought with a shudder, the _Toad_ (France). They had started in the early spring, and reached Plymouth in May.

It hadn't been pleasant. The colonists had frankly been idiots. They hadn't brought enough food to last the winter, and more than half of them had died from either starvation or cold. The whole settlement smelled of death, and many of the corpses hadn't even been buried. Needless to say, Arthur hadn't gone back to America since then.

"Now, I don't know much about your kind. You Nations", the King continued. "But I'm wondering something". He paused then, as if pondering how to continue. "How is it that you are ... born?"

Arthur stopped mid breath. He didn't know much about that either, if he was honest, but he tried to be helpful. "We aren't really ... born per say. We just kind of appear? Sorry", he added, "But I'm just about as clueless as you are".

"Maybe you can't really help me, then", the King said, trying to hide his disappointment. But then he became thoughtful, and seemed to decide something. He continued. "But just hypothetically, what do you think of the odds that a Nation might 'appear' in one of the Colonies?"

Now it was Arthur's turn to pause. The thought had never even crossed his mind. It didn't really seem possible. The Colonies were an extension of Great Britain, an extension of _himself_. A Nation could never actually appear there, could it? He almost replied with a resounding no, when a thought occurred to him: Why not? If countries could have personifications, why not colonies? In fact, the more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.

 _Why not?_

"I don't know", Arthur replied truthfully, "But I certainly don't think that it's _im_ possible".

"Really?" Asked the King, clearly intrigued. "But if that's true, isn't that Colony more likely to rebel against us, to want to become an actual Nation?"

"... Possibly", said Arthur, trying to sound knowledgeable, although he himself was beginning to get completely lost. A Colony had never gotten a personification in the past, at least to Arthur's knowledge, but it wasn't like these things had rules. They just kind of happened. Although, if they did have rules, they were incredibly complicated and esoteric to anyone not in the know. Arthur was not in the know.

But it _did_ make sense. If in fact a Colony _could_ have a personification, then by extension that meant that that person would probably try to become a Nation. It's what Arthur would have done. And having a revolution in the Colonies was the last thing that the empire needed right now.

"And if this was possible, one would think that we would want to get this nation on our side. Make him proud to be part of the empire, wouldn't we?" The King asked.

What was he getting at? There must have been a point, or he wouldn't have been talking about it in the first place. Charlie was a very professional man, he didn't bring up philosophy for philosophy's sake; there _must_ have been a reason. "Yes", Arthur replied cautiously.

"I'm glad you agree" The King smiled. "Because you're going to the Colonies to find out".

And there it was. The punch to the gut, the whole point of this conversation was brutally driven into Arthur's skull. He wanted to get rid of him again. "What?" He sputtered. It wasn't simply _that_ easy to find a Nation, the King must have known that. Arthur didn't know the first thing about finding a Nation, let alone persuade it into being complacent in its role as a Colony. The last time he'd checked, Arthur was not the most persuasive person he knew.

"Yes. And I know the perfect place to start", said the King with complete confidence. "A colony was founded in America just two short years ago, right after you left actually, by a man named William Penn. It's called Pennsylvania (3)".

"Penn's woods (4)?" Arthur asked, using his extremely limited knowledge of Latin.

"Exactly", the King nodded. "A city's going up there now. Philadelphia. It seems like the perfect place for a Nation to appear, wouldn't you agree?"

No was what he wanted to say. Finding a Nation simply wasn't that easy. One would think that a new Nation would be drawn to his or her people, but usually they were actually quite shy. But again, Arthur really didn't _know_. Every case he'd ever witnessed, which was not many, was completely different. But he knew that once Charlie had made up his mind, there was no changing it. And he could do whatever he wanted. He _was_ the King of _bloody_ England, after all.

So Arthur simply shrugged and said "Sounds like a fine plan. When do I leave?"

* * *

The voyage across the Atlantic Ocean would take a little more than two months, and had left barely a day after Arthur got back to London. It certainly didn't leave much time for Arthur to rest, and Arthur wondered if the King would have gotten him on the ship regardless to if he'd actually agreed to the plan or not. But time was most certainly of the essence. Charlie wasn't young anymore. He didn't have much time left.

So, after saying a very brief hello and goodbye to his capital city, Arthur found himself on a huge merchant ship, packed in with as many colonists heading to the New World as it could possibly fit. The King had insisted that Arthur go under the guise of a merchant, so that the people on the boat wouldn't think too hard about the amount of money a simple colonist could possess, but also so that he wouldn't be _so_ important as to attract too much attention to himself.

This was all fine and well, he supposed. He got his own cabin on the ship, which was more than most colonists could say. They were packed as tightly as sardines in the hold below deck. Arthur tried to avoid going down there. It was hot and crowded, and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a space hung in the blistering air. Most people ate in the dark so they couldn't see what was crawling on their plates (5).

There wasn't much to do on the ship. Arthur helped the sailors when he could, but they mostly insisted that he was a gentleman, and shouldn't be brought so low as to have to do the manual labor that the sailors had been hired to do. He'd tell them that it was really no trouble, but they laughed him off, or would tell him to go back to his cabin and "count his money". One would think that something close to a thousand years worth of life would imbue one with incredible patience, but even Arthur was chafing from the inevitable boredom that set in.

It _did_ leave him with a lot of time to think though. And his mind kept drifting to just what he was going to do when he got to America and actually began his mission proper. The plan, in theory, was simple: Once he got to Boston Harbor, he'd have a short time to acquire a horse and ride to Philadelphia. He would then take up residence in an empty house there (Ordered by the King himself to be built) and search for the Nation, if it even existed.

This was where it got complicated. Charlie was, unfortunately naïve in the ways of the New World, never actually having been there. He simply had no concept of just how big it really was, and how many people were there. And the Nation could be absolutely _anywhere_. The mission was, in reality, hopeless, but he hadn't told Charlie that. Truth be told, he simply didn't want to let the old man down. Still, he had no idea how to even _begin_ looking for a Nation. In his opinion, if it didn't want to be found, it never would. It would know the territory like the back of it's hand, which left Arthur at a significant disadvantage. The thought that this Nation might _want_ to be found never even crossed his mind.

"What are you doing?" Asked a high-pitched voice, and Arthur realized that he'd been muttering "Bloody impossible" over and over to himself for the last five minutes. He looked up from the wood knot on the deck that he'd been having a staring contest with and saw a young girl, with big green eyes staring at him from behind a crate.

"Oh, hello", Arthur said, smiling at her. He had always had a soft spot for children. They were simply too young and innocent to bugger things up as their adult counterparts often did. They were also, he had discovered, far more perceptive, and could often tell that there was something different about him. "I was just thinking".

"You must do an awful lot of it then", she said, stepping around the crate and padding closer to him with shoe less feet. His face softened from it's previous scowl, and she smiled back at him. The wind blew her strawberry blonde hair into her face, and she pulled it away, revealing a slightly dirt-smudged cheek. Just where the dirt had actually _come_ from on a ship made of wood Arthur could only guess. "You've been sitting there for a long time".

"He chuckled. "An astute observation", he said. "What are you doing so far from the other children?" He asked.

She rolled her eyes. "All they want to do is play jacks. I'm bored of jacks. And Mummy told me to leave her alone, 'cause she has a headache".

"I think anyone would get a headache being stuck in the hold for this long". He patted her on the head. "Hey", he began, "What's your name?"

"Karen Carter".

"Alright then, Karen Carter. Why don't you tell me why you're going such a long way on this ship?"

"Because Mummy said we can have a new life there. She says we'll make lots of money and have a big house and everything. We had to move after Daddy left". Karen frowned, clearly a touchy subject.

"You know", said Arthur, "I think she's right. It sure sounds like anything can happen in America".

"That's what she said". Karen beamed, happier now.

"Now why don't you go to the other children, and show them just who the master of jacks is?"

"Alright". She began to run to the other end of the deck, where a group of children were huddled in a clump around some bits of metal. Then she turned back to Arthur and waved. "Bye!"

He waved back, smiled. He felt better now, too, like maybe this mission wasn't as hopeless as he'd thought. Because anything could happen in America...

 _Hope you all liked it. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up in a week, but they're really long, so we'll see..._

Historical Notes:

(1) Oliver Cromwell was a military commander/extreme Puritan who was kind of a crazy zealot in the fact that he believed "God guided his victories". He was one of the major players in the Commonwealth of England, which was a brief period in history in which England was a Republic. After his death in 1658, the Republic kind of collapsed, and Charles II was crowned the King of England.

(2) Charles II was a young man when crowned the King of England, but very quickly lost his crown to Cromwell as the revolution commenced. He lived in exile in France, the Dutch Republic and the Netherlands for ten years until the Commonwealth of England collapsed and he was invited back as rightful King of England.

(3) Pennsylvania was founded in 1681 by William Penn, a Quaker. They were a Christian denomination which believed in a more direct relationship with the powers that be than other groups. Pennsylvania had one of the best relationships with the neighboring Native Americans, thanks much in part to Penn's peaceful ways.

(4) Fun Fact: Sylvania is "forest" or "woods" in Latin, so Pennsylvania actually means Penn's woods.

(5) This is actually true. Because ships were often at sea for months at a time, the food they had brought with them would rot and maggots and other delectable bugs would make homes in it. This was one of the reasons that people were so crazy about getting their hands on spices at the time, which helped to preserve food.


	2. The Meeting

_Whoo hoo! I'm right on time this week! Yay! And it's even tech week for the musical I'm in right now, so double yay! We'll see if I can actually keep this up._

 _Also, figured I should mention this now: Even though I_ do _ship USUK, it won't be featured in this story because I wanted to focus more on the familial relationship between the two characters. So because I ship it, you might see it if you look sideways (that is, when he's not chibi!america, cuz that might be a little weird), but it's not the focus of the story. I'll also be introducing one or two OCs eventually, but they will also not, I repeat NOT end up with either Arthur or Alfred, because I don't trust myself to not write a mary-sue if that did happen :)._

 _Anyway, I'll stop talking now. Enjoy your chapter!_

* * *

Chapter Two

The Meeting

She had known from the instant she'd laid eyes on the boy that he would be her undoing. His pale skin and light hair were so unlike her own, and she had never seen anything like it, but she knew what it meant. The boy was like her, a symbol of the people, and soon she realized that her land would not be her's for much longer. That boy was the future, he was a representation of the future, one that did not involve her.

It was all there in his eyes. One day the pale people would come from over the sea and settle in her hills and valleys, driving her people away like unwanted children into smaller and smaller territories, starving them, leaving them in pain to pick up the pieces. But she would be gone long before that. The pale people would build vast camps that would stretch on for miles, with huts that would reach for the sky, turning it brown with belching smoke. They would chop down all of her forests and clog the rivers and kills the animals of her land. As much as she wished that all of this would never come to pass, it must have been true.

That boy had stars in his eyes.

But still, she loved him all the same. Even though his people would come to destroy her land, hurting or abandoning this child wouldn't change the future, nothing would. You simply couldn't change it. You played the part that fate assigned you and prayed that you would come out with some semblance of humanity left. No, it would be best to nurture the young boy while his mind was still new, and alien to the ways of the world. She would teach him all she knew about their kind, and help him along his way.

And so she cared for the boy. She showed him the beauty of her land, the green forests and the blue mountains, the orange deserts and the yellow plains with grass that blew in the wind like waves on the sea. And she taught him to respect the land and all of the creatures in it. And he would run through the prairie grass, laughing and smiling. He would look up at her with those star-filled eyes of his. And they scared her, those eyes. There was anger hidden in their blue depths.

"How long have you been here?" The boy asked one day as they lay in the prairie grass, his head in her lap. She paused to think. She had no way to keep track of the passing years except by the changing seasons and the endless cycles of the sun and moon.

"A long time", she said simply, and it was true. She had been here since the earth had been cold and hard, and she was alone in her land. It had been a lonely existence, just her and the cold. But soon, big, woolly animals began crossing over to her land from the great ice bridge, which had since sunken into the sea. These animals were being chased by people. And she had been so glad to see the people come, _her_ people now, trekking through the cold and wind to see her land.

She had been young then, naïve, and had not yet witnessed the war and bloodshed that seemed to follow man wherever he ventured on this earth. So she was happy. And throughout the millennia she watched as the earth thawed and her people spread from the snow to the desert, the hills to the valleys. She smiled.

Then, her people began to fight each other. They stabbed their own people with spears and rained arrows down on their fellow man, which pierced their flesh and left them in agony. And it hurt, and hurt more than anything in the world to see her people die all around her. Every arrow pierced _her_ flesh, every spear stabbed _her_ gut. They left marks on her skin, so many marks. And she could vividly remember how she had acquired each and every one. She couldn't understand why they had to hurt each other, hurt _her_ , so much.

"Why?" She would ask them, tears streaming down her face, blood dribbling from her mouth. "Why must you kill your own people? Can't you see that you are destroying yourselves?"

And they would always reply the same way: "They are not our people.

"They are from one tribe and we are from another.

"They have hurt us, so we must hurt them back".

But she knew, deep down in the innermost reaches of her soul, if she even had one anymore, that it was not true. They were all one people. It hurt just as much regardless of which tribe was hurting who. They should have been fighting together, as one people. And it tore her up inside, till she was sure that her heart lay in tatters in her chest.

After a millennia of witnessing the endless stream of fighting and war that plagued her people, she had learned to live with the pain, learned to withstand the terror she felt every time one of her people died with a stick through her gut, every time one of her people writhed on the ground in agony, praying for his death. But the pain never left.

She feared for the boy. He would soon enter a world of hardship and pain, one that would take this peaceful, happy little boy, and turn him into a monster. She had seen it happen with so many, all of the symbols of the people. The great empires of the south, the fur-wearing people of the north, her sisters had succumbed to the pain one by one. She herself had lost her humanity so long ago. And this pain would never end, never vanish. She couldn't die, no matter how hard she had tried. The boy loved to finger the thin white line that crossed the front of her neck.

She wanted to protect the boy from this world of hers that he would surely one day experience just as vividly as she did. She wanted to destroy the boats, stop the pale people from coming over the sea altogether. But there was only so much she could do. Symbol or not, she was only one person. One person could never change fate single-handedly. And she was fading.

It had started slowly. She had looked into a pond and saw her reflection indistinct, fading, though the water was calm and clear. She had cut her foot on a rock, and it hadn't stopped bleeding for a day. She knew that very soon, her time would be up. And it made her smile. This land was no longer hers. Soon it would belong to the sweet, innocent young boy who smiled up at her as she kissed his sun-kissed head. She hoped that he could carry the burden.

They sat in a clearing in the forest, the wind blowing through her long, raven hair, making the branches of the trees wave and shutter. Her strength was fading. She knew that she would never get up again. She held the boy close to her for the last time, rubbed his back. His breath stuttered in and out, jagged. His tears felt warm as they landed on her skin. She smiled at him, tried to look brave as she feebly attempted to push that stubborn piece of hair down onto his head.

"It's time to say goodbye", she whispered to him, trying to etch every detail of his face into her mind, though she knew that soon, even that would be gone.

"But why?" He stared up at her with those unfathomable, starry eyes.

"Because my time is done now. Soon, this land and everything in it will be yours".

"I don't want to leave you!" He burrowed into her, clinging tightly to her tunic of deer skin.

With great effort, she pulled him away from her, sat him down on the ground in front of her. Her heart ached as he sobbed. So she did the one thing that she could think of to comfort him: She reached up to grab the long, majestic eagle feather that perched in her hair, and placed it in his hand. He stared at it in awe, the most precious thing he had ever received. "Keep this, and whenever you feel sad, or alone, you can look at it and remember me".

He burst into fresh tears, hard. He sobbed, the droplets of water streaming down his ruddy cheeks in great rivers. "I love you", he cried out.

"I love you too", she said, hugging him for one last time. She saw her hand then, just a faint shimmer in the air now. She would be gone any minute.

"Listen", she said urgently. There were so many things she needed to tell him yet, and so little time to do it, "Go to the pale peoples' camp. Tell them your name. Someone there will know what to do. You understand?" She could only hope and pray that this young soul would meet someone who could help him understand all of the things that she could not teach him.

He nodded, sniffing up the tears, trying to be brave. "Good", she said, little more than a shadow against the trees now. She felt the world fading, the wind about to carry her away into a final, eternal peace. "Remember", she said softly, brushing one last tear from his cheek. "I will always love you. My little America".

With those last words, she ceased to exist. She was carried away on the breeze, and Native America disappeared from this world forever, never to return. The little boy stared at the spot where she had just a minute ago sat for a long time, trying to process that now he was alone. He stood up, trying to hold back the endless stream of tears.

The boy with stars in his eyes ran from his peaceful, child-like world, and into his future.

* * *

The trek to Philadelphia took the better part of the day from Boston Harbor. It had been hard riding on horse-back, mostly because the path through the largely forested land was small and indistinct, and was covered with rocks and roots that threatened to trip up Arthur's horse at every given opportunity. But also because Arthur realized that he hadn't actually ridden a horse in a long time, and found his equestrian skills to be a bit rusty. But eventually, after hours of clenching with his thighs onto a huge animal's back, sore, tired as he was, Arthur made it to the settlement in the late afternoon.

At the moment, Philadelphia didn't seem quite as grand as Arthur had been led to believe. It wasn't much of a city, really, more like a small community, with a few log houses and businesses perched around a dirt clearing. It did seem, however, that construction was always happening here. At the time Arthur arrived there had been three different buildings going up simultaneously, and the sounds of pounding hammers could be heard through the clearing at all hours of the day, so maybe soon, this place _would_ become a city.

Charles had kept his word: there was an empty house set aside for his arrival. It was a quaint little cabin, made of exposed wood logs which made up the entirety of the structure—walls, floors, ceiling, you name it, it was wood logs. Arthur couldn't really complain, though, as this dwelling was _much_ nicer than a majority of the other homes in the settlement. For one thing, it did actually _have_ floors, and not just compressed dirt. And for another, it had more than one room. Most families got by with just one room for eating, sleeping, and being in, but Arthur's had three rooms. The first was a cheery little front room with a wooden table and several windows. There were two doors off of this room that led back into a bedroom and a kitchen respectively.

It was there in the front room, at the table, that Arthur sat now, letting the warm afternoon breeze blow into his face through the open window. The easy part of his mission was done now, and as he sat there, Arthur realized that he had absolutely no idea where to go from here. It was true that you could put him in a room with a group of people and he would have been able to tell you which one was the Nation almost immediately, but he by no means had a "Nation Compass", as the King seemed convinced he did. He simply couldn't find a Nation with the whole of the New World as his parameters. And it wasn't like the Nation would be actively seeking him out, either.

He realized that he'd been muttering "Bloody impossible" to himself again. But it was true. The New World was a positively huge place. He could be here for years and catch neither hide nor hair of the Nation. It was bloody impossible.

 _Bloody impossible_.

In fact, even the proposition was so outrageous that Arthur almost packed up right there to head back to England. He knew for a fact that no such Nation could possibly exist here. It was only a bloody colony, after all, and was simply a little spot of light in the great dark wilderness that surrounded it. Arthur could have searched for a thousand years, a _million_ even, and never would have come even close to finding—

"But I _am_ America! Give me back my feather! That's not cool, dude!"

The sounds of vaguely irate children's voice floated in through the window, followed by a bevy of malicious laughter. Arthur turned his head towards the noise. Had he heard what he'd just _thought_ he had? Did that shrill voice just proclaim that it "was America", or had the warm day caused Arthur to start hallucinating?

"You're lying", said one voice.

"You can't be America", said another, a girl by the sound of it, "America's not a person, it's a place".

"I'm going to hold onto this pretty feather until you tell the truth", said a third, the loudest.

"But I _am_ telling the truth", the very first again, "I'm America".

Now Arthur knew that he couldn't have been hearing things. That had happened, he'd distinctly heard a little voice shout that he was in fact, a country. The kid was lucky he was young. If Arthur went around proclaiming that he was the anthropomorphic personification of the island of Great Britain, he'd be tossed in the Loony bin faster than he could say "God save the King"!

Arthur thumped across the floor of the cabin, and opened the door. There, only a short distance away from his house, in the center of the clearing, were four children. Two boys and a girl stood around a third, slightly smaller boy. The biggest of them, a beefy kid with matted brown hair, held the largest feather that Arthur had ever seen above his head while the boy in the middle tried desperately to get it back. As he jumped up and down, the strand of flax blonde hair that popped up from his head at an odd angle bounced with him. The other two children blocked Cowlick boy in, and laughed all the while at his suspense.

"Give it back!" Cowlick boy shouted through gritted teeth. The bigger boy just laughed and didn't pay heed to the boy's begging. He shifted the feather from hand to hand, holding it tantalizingly close to Cowlick boy's face before yanking it into the sky again and out of reach.

And then it happened: A look came into Cowlick boy's eyes that terrified Arthur. It seemed to scare the other children too, who stopped. He looked angry, unnaturally so for a child so young, and the other kids started backing away. " _Give it back_ ", Cowlick boy repeated, quieter now. But the bigger boy was unfazed. He was either very confident, or very, very stupid. Arthur secretly thought the latter was far more likely.

"Make me", he smirked down at the smaller boy. Cowlick boy's eyes narrowed into slits, and burned into him. The challenge wouldn't go unanswered. He grabbed his arm, the one busy holding the long feather over his head, and pulled, bringing it back down to the bigger boy's side with a sickening crunch. The feather fell to the ground, and Cowlick boy snatched it up, brushing the dirt off with reverence. All four children then stood in silence for a moment, until the bigger boy began to tear up and balled, falling to the ground and clutching his surely broken arm.

"I...I'm sorry. I didn't mean—", Cowlick boy sputtered, fearful of repercussion. But the bigger boy wasn't going to be retaliating anytime soon. His howls of pain echoed through the settlement, though, and was starting to draw attention from the adults around. The other two children looked at each other, and quickly fled the scene. Cowlick boy shivered and looked this way and that, unsure of what to do.

The light went off in Arthur's head. This boy was _indeed_ a Nation. There was otherwise no conceivable way he could have broken the bigger boy's arm by brute strength alone. Arthur had never heard of a Nation being _that_ strong, but most of them did have certain...quirks. Austria could play absolutely any piece of music you put in front of him, regardless of instrument or style, and as much as he hated to admit it, France had been called the most aesthetically pleasing creature on the planet on multiple occasions, so it wasn't extremely unusual.

But now, the various colonists were beginning to have their attention drawn to this impossible crime. If they looked too closely, there would be questions, which would not do anyone good. Arthur would have to make his move, and quickly.

"Oi, you!" He called to the boys, and Cowlick boy looked up in fear, blue eyes wide. Arthur began to jog over to the pair, gaze fixed on the guilty one. He prayed that Cowlick boy wouldn't get scared and dash. _Just stay where you are,_ he pleaded silently. "You're in big trouble, young man", he said loudly, trying to look in charge of the situation.

"I-I", Cowlick boy stuttered, surely confused. Had this stranger mistaken him for someone else? A child or younger brother? He shuffled back and forth on his feet, not sure what to do or where to go. He looked about ready to run, but Arthur was quicker. Grabbing his shoulder, he leaned down next to Cowlick boy's ear.

"In about five seconds, those adults are going to start asking questions that neither of us can answer without being shipped off to the loony bin", he whispered. "So I'm going to get you out of here, but you have to play along".

Cowlick boy nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Arthur stood, still clutching onto his shoulder. "Come on", he shouted, to make sure that everyone around could hear him, "We're going to have some words". Arthur moved his hand to behind the boy's back, and began guiding him towards the woods. He looked over his shoulder, and saw that the bigger boy had limped off somewhere, hopefully to get help.

"Aw, come on, big Brother, it was just a game", Cowlick boy protested, putting on a surprisingly good pout. But he willingly allowed Arthur to steer him away from the scene and into safety.

"I'll not hear another word about it", said Arthur as they moved into the dark of the forest.

They walked through the dense greenery for a minute, not saying a word to each other, until Arthur was certain that they were a good distance away from the settlement. He let out the breath he'd just realized he was holding and relaxed. "That was close".

Cowlick boy stared up at him for a moment appraisingly, as if confused by his strange behavior, and Arthur waited patiently, certain that in just a moment, he would come to the correct conclusion. The boy might have only looked eight, but really, he could have been any age at all. Aging was strange for Nations, and didn't occur steadily. Even Arthur, who'd been around for a bloody long time, didn't really understand it. If he was honest, he really didn't know a lot about anything. Although most Nations tended to look like adults by the time they were two hundred, the boy could have very well been older than Arthur himself.

It dawned on Cowlick boy then, whose mouth widened into an 'o'. "You're like me!" he exclaimed, pointing a small finger at Arthur.

Arthur chuckled. "Not much subtlety about you, is there?" He kneeled down, so as to be eye level with the boy. "But if you mean a Nation, then yes, I am 'like you'".

"A Nation?" The boy asked, testing the word as if he'd never heard it before. Arthur realized with a jolt that he probably never had. This was a wild and untamed land, with no signs of civilization as far as he could tell, he never been exposed to such a concept. The boy had a lot to learn.

"Yes. I represent a country from across the sea. They call me Britain".

"I'm America", the boy smiled brightly. He seemed to get it. But after a second, his perpetual grin faltered. "But what's a country"

Arthur thought for a second, trying to think of a possible way to describe the idea. It was one of those intangible things that was difficult to explain to someone when they'd never heard of the concept. How could he phrase it? "It's like", he began, "A huge group of people to work together to help each other out", he finished lamely, not sure if the explanation was sufficient.

"Oh! Like a tribe?" The boy asked. Arthur realized that he was going to be here for awhile, and sat down on the soft forest ground. Cowlick boy followed suit, plopping down hard. The eagle feather that he'd since stuck in his hair followed suit, flopping limply as he sat.

"Kind of", Arthur said, "But much bigger, like a bunch of tribes working together".

Cowlick boy bit his lip, but he nodded, seeming to understand. His eyebrows knitted together. "Am _I_ a country?"

Oh goodness, Arthur had known the boy for approximately twenty minutes and they were already getting to the subject that he'd hoped to avoid at all costs. He needed to tread very carefully here. "Not exactly", he said. "You're a colony. Several of them, actually".

"A colony?"

This was going to be a long bloody day. "Yes", said Arthur, trying not to sound testy. The boy was most certainly fond of asking questions. "Technically, the colonies are part of _my_ country", he tried to explain, "But you're very far away from me; All of the way across the ocean. So you get to look after yourselves".

Cowlick boy tilted his head. "So does that make you my Brother?" He asked.

Arthur paused. He didn't really know how to feel about the word "Brother". Most of his actual brothers (Scotland, Ireland, and Wales) had just ignored him most of his life, so he'd never really had a _real_ brother, unless you counted Francais and Antonio, but he hated the former's guts, and was also not on the best of terms with the latter, especially since he'd tried to invade Britain with his enormous Spanish Armada, which had luckily been stopped by Arthur's beloved English Channel.

But as he looked down at this small Nation who had such an innocent look in his eyes, Arthur became conscious of the fact that for some reason, he wanted to protect this young, inexperienced boy. He _did_ want to be his Brother.

"Yes", he said, smiling, "I guess that does make me your Big Brother, then".

"Yay!" Exclaimed the smaller Nation, jumping up and down in excitement.

"Alright then", said Arthur, reclaiming his attention instantly. The sudden silence shocked Arthur for a second, who was not used to having people listen to him so readily. "First order of business then: I assume you don't have a name".

The boy looked confused. "I already told you: it's America".

"No, no", said Arthur, "I mean a _human_ name".

The little boy stared up at him, waiting silently for an explanation.

"Most people don't know about Nations", he began, "And it would probably be for the best if it stayed that way. So you need a normal name to introduce yourself with".

This was the official reason for the Nations to have names. It wasn't really a rule per-say, but it was what they told people when they were asked about it. Over the millennia, for one reason or another, almost all of the Nations had taken one. For some, it was to honor a fallen comrade, or to fit into human society, but for most, it was really because deep down, they wanted to convince themselves that they were still human, _could_ still be human. It was something they could cling to when the world was falling down around them. When there was nothing left, they still had their names.

"I don't have one of those", said the boy, despondent. Arthur patted him on the shoulder, hoping that the gesture was comforting.

"It's okay", he smiled, "We'll just choose one for you". Cowlick boy brightened up immediately.

"What's _your_ name?" He asked.

"Arthur Kirkland".

"Can _I_ be Arthur Kirkland too?" Cowlick boy asked, eyes wide in anticipation.

Arthur laughed. "Goodness no. Then people would get us confused. You need a name that all your own, one that's unique".

"Hmm..." The boy thought for a minute, nose scrunched in concentration. Arthur supposed that he _was_ asking a lot of him. To choose a name that you would be using for several lifetimes on the spot would have been nerve-wracking. Arthur decided to help him out.

"How about...William?" He offered.

"No", the boy shook his head.

"James?"

"No".

"Charles?"

"No".

"Fergus?"

The boy laughed. "No way!"

"Hmm..." Arthur hesitated. "How about Alfred?"

The boy looked about ready to reject that name too, but then he stopped, thought about it for a second. "Alfred", he tasted the name on his tongue. "Alfred", Arthur waited patiently. "I like it", the boy smiled.

"It's a fine name", Arthur agreed. "Now, you need a surname, so we can tell you apart from all of the other Alfreds in the world", he answered the question preemptively. Alfred sat at attention, enthralled with the idea of receiving a name. "How about Jones?" Arthur offered. The name was Welsh, but he doubted that his brother would mind if he maybe … borrowed it.

"Alfred Jones", said Alfred trying it out. "My name is Alfred Jones", he mock introduced himself to the thin air in front of him.

Arthur chuckled. "It fits you perfectly". He looked upwards then, and saw that it was getting quite dark, the sun was already behind the tall trees, which cast long shadows onto the undergrowth. It would be time to head back soon. He had no idea what sorts of strange creatures might lurk in the forest after dark.

"Do you have a place to stay?" He asked Alfred. The boy's gormless smile dropped from his face, and his eyes clouded over.

The quickness of the change shocked Arthur. What had he said? "I used to live with my Big Sister", Alfred began, "But she … she disappeared". He didn't cry, just looked despairingly downward. Maybe he had run out of tears.

"Hey", Arthur said, and Alfred promptly glomphed him into a hug. Arthur let out a small "oof". The boy was certainly strong. "Why don't you come stay with me?" He asked after getting his breath back.

Alfred pulled away, and looked up at Arthur, hope oozing its way out of his every pore. "Really? You'd let me do that?"

"Sure", said Arthur, "What are Big Brothers for? Follow me and I'll show you the place".

He took the boy's small hand in his own and together they walked off through the forest back to Philadelphia as new-found brothers. Behind them, the sun set below the trees, spreading red and gold into an ever-darkening sky.

* * *

They walked through the forest leisurely, taking their time in getting back to the settlement. If Arthur had thought that he'd asked a lot of questions before, it was nothing compared to the sheer amount of inquiry the child made on their walk. He was incredibly inquisitive, and unfortunately not very well educated in the ways of the civilized world. But he certainly seemed eager to learn. Hopefully that could work to Arthur's advantage.

It was dark by the time they reached the settlement, and all was silent, save for the chirpings of crickets hidden in the brush. A few kerosene lamp lights shown in the windows of the log houses, but overall, it seemed as if most of the colonists had turned in earlier. They had taken longer than they'd meant to get back.

Arthur had a little trouble finding his house in the dark, he himself only having been there once before, but they eventually came upon it, and Arthur fumbled with the door handle a bit—it stuck—and stumbled inside. While he busied himself with finding some candles and matches, Arthur didn't notice that Alfred stood just outside the doorway, staring with trepidation into the interior of the house. After a few moments, Arthur found a lamp and set it on the table.

It was then that he looked up and saw just how scared the child looked. His wide eyes almost glowing in the dark. What scared the boy so much? Had he never been in a real house before? If what the young Nation said was true, that he'd been roughing it in the woods like a savage for as long as he could remember, then maybe he hadn't been.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asked

Alfred jumped a little, hair-trigger alert. "I..." He started, playing with his deer-skinned tunic nervously (Arthur made a note to get him some _actual_ clothes as soon as he could). He seemed embarrassed, but continued. "It's just … I can't see the sky".

The sky? Arthur didn't see what was so important about _that_. Seeing the sky above you when you were sleeping, or eating, or much of anything, for that matter, meant that you were viable to be bombarded by insects or any number of strange things while you were trying to get something done, and you would do best to head inside immediately. But as he thought about it, Arthur imagined that if _he'd_ lived outdoors for a vast majority of his life, all of those things probably wouldn't be quite as annoying to him. In fact, it might seem perfectly normal. If the sky had been the one permanent fixture in an ever-changing landscape, he'd be a little scared of suddenly not being able to see it too.

A large yawn passed Alfred's lips then, despite himself, and Arthur sighed. He could have very easily insisted that the boy come inside, could have been cruel, but it was late and Arthur was tired, and he really didn't have the energy to be cruel anyway, so he might as well just give the boy what he wanted, if only for this one night.

So he grabbed a quilt and a few feather pillows from the bedroom. "Alright. We'll sleep outside, then". Alfred's face brightened immediately. And Arthur's heart simply melted, the boy simply did something to him, and he didn't exactly know what it was. Was this that thing that people had described to him as "familial affection"?

"But only for one night", he said, unable to give completely into the young boy's desires. Alfred nodded solemnly, but he seemed genuinely relieved.

There was a small hill behind the house, oddly bare of trees or vegetation of any kind, really, unless you counted the course grass underfoot, and Alfred began to climb it before Arthur could say otherwise. Arthur followed behind, trying his darnedest not to grumble, and searched around until he found a relatively flat spot to lay the quilt on.

He spread the quilt on the ground, and flopped the pillows onto of those. Then he laid down, and Alfred quickly nestled into his side, his head on Arthur's chest. Arthur laid there for a while, listening to the boy's even breathing. Was it just him, or did the stars shine brighter over here in the New World than in England? They floated there above him, suspended in the sky with invisible strings.

Arthur had always liked the stars. Even though he knew that they really wouldn't be there forever, it surely seemed that way. No matter how long he lived, how many lives he'd taken, how many regrets he had, he could always look up at the sky and marvel at one of the only things in the world that was older than he was. They always sat there, looking exactly the same as they had the previous night. He had to admire their consistency.

"Brother?" Alfred asked timidly, and Arthur looked down to see his luminous blue eyes staring up at him. For a moment, Arthur could have sworn that he saw the stars reflected there, but mentally shook himself. It was just his tired mind playing tricks on him.

"Yes", he replied, gazing down at the strange creature that had somehow managed to make him smile so readily. Again.

Alfred stared tentatively up at him, looking small against the vast canvas of the sky that wheeled above them. "Can you tell me a story?"

A story? Sure, Arthur had plenty of stories. You didn't live to be upwards of a thousand years and not collect some tales. "Alright", he said, and Alfred promptly snuggled closer, looking excited. Arthur paused. What tale would be the best? One of pirates and treasure? Exploration? Knights and Kings? Ah, he had it. He'd tell him the oldest story of all.

"Once upon a time", Arthur began, grinning slightly as he began to relive the past exploits of a certain group of knights who happened to sit around a round table. "Once upon a time", he repeated for effect, "There lived a young boy named Wort. And he was—"

A soft, peaceful snore interrupted him mid-sentence. He looked down to find that Alfred was already asleep, snuggled against him on the quilt. Arthur sighed. He'd have to finish some other time. He smoothed Alfred's hair, his cowlick popping stubbornly back into place. Little bugger. Alfred mumbled a little, but didn't wake.

Part of Arthur couldn't believe that this child could even exist, that he could be here right now and actually seemed to _like_ Arthur, to look up to him. No one had _ever_ looked up to him before. He was filled with the feeling that he had to protect this little guy, had to make sure that Francais would never get his grubby paws on him. Because he didn't know how, but Arthur just _knew_ that someday, this little Nation would be great...

* * *

 _Okay, hopefully I'll see you guys around the same time next week! Bye bye!_


	3. The Few Short Years

_Well! Still on time. I think this is a record. Anyway, figured I should mention this now:_

 _ **WARNING:** History, as a whole, is very religious. If I'm going to be truthful and honest in my writing about it, there's going to be some religion involved. I myself, however, am not a religious person, and so because I can only write what I know, my characters may tend to take a somewhat atheistic point of view. Do keep in mind that I'm not trying to offend you or your religion in any way, it's just how I roll._

 _Okay! With that boring seriousness out of the way, enjoy the chapter. It may be all cute and fluffy now, but I have plans. EVIL PLANS! MUHAHAHAHAHA!_

* * *

Chapter Three

The Few Short Years

At first, Arthur thought that maybe he'd dreamed the whole thing. It just seemed far too easy. He hadn't even imagined that the Nation could have existed, let alone that he'd be able to find it, and suddenly, Alfred had appeared as if by magic—or a puff of smoke, whatever suited his fancy. It was all frankly too good to be true, and as these things usually were, probably imaginary. Well, it was a nice dream while it lasted, but now it was time to face reality, because something like that could never, _ever_ happen in the real world.

Except by then he was awake enough to be aware of the rock that was currently busy burrowing its way into the small of his back. Arthur didn't think the bed was _that_ hard. And now he felt the sun shining fiercely behind his closed eyelids. Oh, that's right, he'd fallen asleep outside last night because Alfred had been too scared to sleep indoors.

Wait. Wasn't that all part of his dream, though? That hadn't really happened. It was certainly a vivid dream, but it didn't happen. But then the small weight under his arm shifted, and let out a small grunt. Arthur opened his eyes. He was lying on the hill outside his house, the sun rising over the trees of the endless forests that surrounded the settlement. Tendrils of orange and pink reached towards the sky as if embracing it. Alfred's head laid on Arthur's chest, and rose and fell slowly with his breathing.

Arthur couldn't believe his luck. It _hadn't_ been a dream. It was really real. He'd found the bloody Nation! In one day! That must have been a world record. With a jolt, he realized that his mission was complete. He could go home now. Arthur was about ready to jump for joy and start packing when Alfred snorted a little, and attempted to wrap his small arm around Arthur's middle. It was at that moment that he realized that he simply couldn't leave the child to fend for himself.

If he'd wanted to, he'd could have been a heartless bastard and left Alfred alone, by himself here in this huge, unexplored land. It's probably what France or Spain would have done, but he realized then that that would be a horrible, simply rotten thing to do to a child. _Any_ child. This child in particular was so young to be so alone in this big world that he frankly really didn't understand.

It reminded Arthur of another young boy. It must have been many centuries by now, but that little boy hadn't had anyone to look after him. _His_ older brothers just tried to invade his land and make him cry. France and Spain and all of the others _had_ made Arthur cry, had brought him down to the lowest of lows for their own personal gain. Look how _he_ turned out. Arthur had done a lot of things in the past that he sincerely regretted, all in the name of so-called revenge, to get back at his brothers for ruining his childhood.

He didn't want to see that happen to anyone, ever again. If he was going to be this child's big brother, then by Jove, he was going to _be_ his big brother. The world was large and confusing, and Alfred had his head stuck in the Stone Age. Arthur would simply have to teach him the ways of the modern world, because, really, who else was going to? If he was honest, Arthur hadn't been exposed to many healthy familial relationships, but he would most certainly try.

Alfred stirred then, yawned. He looked around seemingly as confused as Arthur had been just a moment ago, until he realized where he was. "Good morning", Arthur grinned, though he didn't know why. The child seemed to somehow bring it out of him. Alfred looked up at him, then smiled back, before yawning again.

The boy sat up, rubbing his eyes with a pudgy little fist. "Morning". Arthur sat up too, running a hand through his disheveled blonde hair. The blanket was damp with dew from the rapidly warming day, and Arthur set about the task of folding it up without getting too wet while Alfred stood to the side, blinking against the bright sunlight, his toes becoming cold from the wet grass. Arthur made another note to get the poor boy some shoes. Alfred reached for the pillows as Arthur grabbed the blanket under his arm.

Arthur held out his free hand, and Alfred took it. "Ready to try going inside?" He asked. The boy paused, clearly scared, but then nodded hesitantly. Arthur squeezed his hand in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "Come on, then", he said, "let's go eat some breakfast".

They walked down the hill, and around the side of the wooden house. The settlement was still subdued, quiet, with only a few people up to begin doing the day's work. Arthur opened the front door. The interior of the front room was bright and sunny, hopefully less terrifying than the dark of the previous night. "You ready?" He asked, and Alfred nodded, determined now.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and after a moment, put one foot through the doorway. It made a light clunk on the wood floor. He paused again, almost lost his nerve, but then the other foot went through. He waited, as if making sure that the house wouldn't gobble him up. After another moment, nothing happened, and he let go of Arthur's hand and took a step inside. Then another. Clunk clunk clunk. He opened his eyes then, and turned back to Arthur, smiling. "This floor feels funny".

Laughing, Arthur followed him inside. The boy took a few more steps, then began to run around the small front room, enjoying the sound that his bare feet made against the dark wood of the floor. Arthur watched, bemused at this child who had never been in a house before.

Alfred pattered around the room for a few minutes, but then stopped. His stomach made an audible growling noise. "Why don't we go make some breakfast?" Arthur suggested.

He led the way into the small kitchen towards the back of the house. A fireplace sat wedged in the corner, and most of the other space was occupied by counters and various utensils, which hung from the walls on hooks. Arthur _did_ like cooking, although Francis would often call what he made "Eldritch Horrors from the farthest reaches of the cosmos come to devour us all", with his annoying, over the top accent. But what could Arthur say? He loved to experiment. And sometimes those experiments just didn't come out quite right.

Eyes widening, Alfred looked around in awe. Most likely, there were a huge variety of things in here that his primitive upbringing would have never allowed him to see. "What's that?" He asked, pointing at a ladle.

Arthur told him as much. "It's for scooping things up, like soup", he explained after Alfred parroted the answer back to him. They repeated the process several times with a strainer, a grinder, and a tenderizer respectively, until Arthur lost patience. He put a finger to the boy's mouth and said "Shh. Watch and learn".

The boy still managed to keep a running dialog as Arthur got busy making something that he could only pray might eventually turn out to be edible. He talked about anything and everything, and seemed to only need the occasional nod from Arthur to just keep right on going. "I think the ocean's pretty, and-and-and there are these _huge_ boats that float on top of it sometimes, like big ducks!" He laughed. "It's crazy, man! Sometimes, I wish that _I_ could be one of those boats, you know?" Nod. "Oh, but you've been on one before, haven't you?" Nod. "'Cause you said that Britain's across the ocean, right?" Nod. "What's Britain like?"

Arthur had just finished placing a tray of what he hoped would be scones over the fire. He turned to find Alfred, and thought about it for a second. "It's actually an island", he began, "But it's a really _big_ one. It's got a very long and fascinating history and..." he stopped mid-sentence, thought a bit more. "You know what? Britain's bloody boring". Alfred started laughing. "No, really", he continued, "It's filled with shallow people who won't see past the ends of their own noses, while the poor live in these slums, basically buried knee-deep in their own shi—", he caught himself. Bad Arthur. No naughty words in front of children!

"That sounds really gross", said Alfred, scrunching up his nose. "Can I go and see it sometime?"

"Hmm", Arthur thought for a second, but his mind kept coming back to all of the nasty things that could happen to the poor child there: accosted on the street, lost in the slums, getting his cheek pinched by the Duchess of Lancaster. "Maybe when you're older", he concluded.

Just then, the smell of something burning reached his nose. The scones! He grabbed a cloth and tried to grab the tray from the fire. "Damn it!" he snapped, almost burning his hand against the hot metal. "Don't repeat that", he added to Alfred as he finally managed to somehow get ahold of the tray and place it on a counter without setting his own hand ablaze.

Alfred stared at the blackened, shriveled lumps on the tray, which were _supposed_ to be scones. He reached a small hand to grab one. "Ah-ah-ah", said Arthur, and Alfred swiftly pulled the offending appendage out of the way. "Careful. Those are hot".

After a few minutes, the would-be-scones were cool enough to attempt to eat. Arthur supposed he could have done the whole affair properly, with plates and utensils and things, but at this point, he really didn't care much. Alfred held the thing in his hands and after staring at it for a minute, took an enormous bite. Arthur waited with baited breath for the inevitable gagging that would soon ensue, but it never came.

"This is good!" Alfred exclaimed, taking another big bite.

"Really?" Sputtered Arthur, before he composed himself. "Of course they are". He grabbed one from the tray and attempted to pull off a tough chunk with his teeth. He had to chew on it for a good minute before he could get it down his throat. It was disgusting. The boy certainly had a strange sense of taste alright. But hey, if he liked his food, then maybe this would be easier than he thought...

* * *

And so they lived, there in that small house in Philadelphia, for a few joyful, albeit short, years. For the first time in possibly as long as he could remember, Arthur was actually kind of happy. Not just some artificial type of happiness that he told himself he had, but this feeling was real, _genuine_. Somehow, he wasn't Arthur Kirkland the Conqueror or Arthur Kirkland, the Anthropomorphic Personification of Britain. He was just simply Arthur Kirkland. He finally understood what Charlie had meant when he said to just be himself. And if he was honest, that was all he really wanted to be at the moment.

The boy somehow brought him that sense of peace that had seemed to evade him for so long. Perhaps it was that Arthur didn't feel so alone anymore. It was true that he'd never _truly_ been alone, there were other Nations he could have talked to, but the ones he was friendly with were just so far away, and it seemed that he had alienated all of the others near him: France was never going to just sit down and talk to him, and Spain kept his distance ever since the whole armada thing. Arthur had been a little scary, then. He had scared himself.

But that was all in the past, now. He felt so whole here, so ... _human._ And he had Alfred with him to remind him of that humanity that he had only recently realized that he still possessed. And over the few years they had together they grew closer. And they were both able to teach each other things that they would have never learned otherwise. Arthur taught Alfred all of the typical things: reading, writing, arithmetic, and how to be a gentleman, and Alfred taught Arthur many things as well, like about all of the plants and animals of his land, and the beauty of the raw wilderness.

Sometimes, as is with anyone who lives in proximity to another person, they didn't get along. They'd fight and yell about one thing or another, but these arguments were always so trivial that later, neither would remember what they were even about in the first place. And really, what pair of siblings didn't fight on occasion? Even Arthur knew that. If he was honest, he knew it a little _too_ well.

And as they watched, the settlement of Philadelphia grew from a few wooden houses around a clearing to a decent-sized town. Some of the newer houses were even beginning to get made with bricks instead of simple wood. To Arthur's slight discomfort, it was starting to look a lot like Britain, and to Alfred's _great_ discomfort, the colonists were beginning to encroach on the forests, driving the animals far away.

Sometimes the young boy would wander far into the forests just to hear the noises of the animals that had long since fled the burgeoning city. Arthur let him alone then, when he got like that, and let him go. He knew these lands like the back of his hand, and always came back after a few hours.

They did have one big problem, however, that very quickly made itself apparent: Alfred didn't age. This certainly wasn't unusual for a Nation, who tended to age somewhat irregularly, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was the _colonists_. They of course, had no idea what Arthur and Alfred really were, and people tended to over-react when confronted with things they don't understand. Arthur had heard about Salem, and it scared him.

Most of the colonists were Quakers, who were generally pretty peaceful folk. They had made peace with the local natives, going so far as to _buy_ Pennsylvania from them, but even the most laid-back person would begin to suspect that something was amiss when they were confronted with a small boy who hadn't looked a day over eight for the last two and a half _years_.

This wasn't such a problem for Arthur, who looked old enough that his actual age could be left somewhat ambiguous, but in Alfred's case, it was highly suspicious when his peers grew up around him while he stayed the exact same age as the day they first saw him.

The more time that past, the less friendly the colonists became to the two of them. They stopped smiling when little Alfred waved, or pushed their children inside as he past. When the two of them walked around the town, people averted their eyes. One time, Arthur could have sworn that he'd seen a woman make the sign of the cross and mutter "Demon", when she saw them. It worried Alfred, who didn't quite understand the change in attitude that overcame the colonists.

They would have to move soon, there was no doubt about that. Maybe they'd go to Boston, it seemed like their best bet at anonymousness. But Alfred was reluctant to leave. His sister had disappeared here, after all, and part of him felt that he'd be leaving her behind by going.

"Hey", Arthur had said, "You've still got that eagle feather she gave you, right?" Alfred had nodded solemnly. ""So you're not _really_ leaving her behind. You've got a piece of her wherever you go". That talk seemed to allay the boy's fears somewhat, but Alfred was still somewhat hesitant. They finally agreed to wait one month and leave on the anniversary of the day they'd first met.

That had been the plan, but it seemed that plans that Arthur made never really went off as they were supposed to. The bugger of it all had happened a week before they were supposed to leave. Several of the carpenters building a new house had gotten sick, and the house, which was supposed to be completed in a week for the new family's arrival, was severely undermanned. Arthur _did_ know a thing or two about carpentry, it was another one of those things you didn't live a thousand years and _not_ learn, so he volunteered to help out. The carpenters had—somewhat reluctantly, Arthur noted—agreed.

So Arthur had helped out, and things seemed to have been going pretty well, when he'd had to climb up that ruddy ladder. It was rickety, and nowhere near stable, but this giant log had to be tied to the structure of the house, and Arthur was certainly not the tallest man around, so he'd climbed up the ladder.

Said implement had begun to tremble beneath him as he neared the top. The carpenters had warned him that he shouldn't climb to the very top rung, but that was ridiculous. Why had it been put there in the first place if you weren't supposed to climb it? And besides, Arthur still didn't have quite the height he needed. He tried to hold very still as he worked, to prevent the ladder from moving, but then his leg got sore, and without thinking, he shifted positions.

That was enough to make the ladder crumble, and Arthur held onto the log for a second, but that became unbalanced as well, and Arthur plummeted downward to the ground from a height of about ten feet. He would have been okay, if he'd not tried to hang onto the bloody log, which came down on top of his leg with a harsh crunch.

It was broken, no doubt about that. Unsurprisingly, Arthur really couldn't feel it. The whole leg was just sort of numb, with a sort of burning sensation that wasn't very pleasant. But give it ten minutes and it would be right as rain. That was, coincidentally, about the amount of time it took the carpenters to get organized enough to find the proper amount of man power it required to heave the log away from his leg.

The man in charge—was his name Silas? Arthur couldn't remember—had offered a hand and helped Arthur to his feet. He called someone over to support Arthur's weight as he took a look at the leg. It was broken all right, but a fairly easy diagnosis. The bone _was_ sticking out of his skin at a terribly unnatural angle.

"We'll get you to the doctor", he'd said in his gruff, low voice.

If they did that, then the leg would surely heal and the whole town would know that something was strange about Alfred and him. He tried to refuse the offer, to say that he would be alright with a little bed rest, but it was hard to take his pleas seriously when his own bone was jutting out of the _skin on his leg_.

Of course, just Arthur's luck, at the very moment he was making excuses was the moment that his leg decided to heal. The carpenters watched as, in front of their very eyes, the bone that had one second ago been out in the open moved back into Arthur's leg of its own accord, and the wound closed with nary a trace that it had ever been broken at all. The carpenters, and other colonists that had been drawn to the scene stared in shock.

Needless to say, they started packing right away.

* * *

News had a tendency to spread rapidly in the small town of Philadelphia, and word of the strange event that had recently occurred that very day spread even quicker. From mouth the ear, whispered through the unnaturally quiet streets, the colonists heard the word: There was a demon and its spawn in their midst. There was simply no other way to explain the impossible sight that they had witnessed. Furthermore, there was to be a meeting in the town hall that very night to discuss just what to do. There would be no official, nothing of the sort, just old-fashion men and women deciding how they would go about purging this threat from their community.

The colonists waited with trepidation, huddled in their homes, as the sun slowly set behind the trees, leaving the sky a hideous blood red. It was the demon's doing, must have been. It was angry, and if they didn't do something, its wrath would be unleashed on the innocent colonists. But as the full moon arose ominously in the sky, nothing happened.

So slowly, one by one, the colonists made their way to the meeting hall. They tried to stagger their arrivals so as to not alert the demon of the goings-on. Demons were cunning and clever, the colonists would have to tread carefully. They felt like prisoners in their own settlement.

They sat in the meeting house, figures in blankets huddled on the hard wooden benches, in silence, waiting impatiently for any stragglers. The air was so thick with tension that you could have cut it with a knife. Even the flames tip-toeing on their candles seemed to tremble with fear. Finally, Travis the blacksmith peeked his sun-tanned head through the heavy wooden doors, and entered, his wife and two daughters following behind like ducks. He closed and bolted the door behind him.

There was a moment of silence then; the colonists were reluctant to begin. Mother's clutched their children to them, begging them to be quiet as they sniffled back their tears. The men and boys fingered their guns, far too nervous to be safe. Demons could do terrible things to the good, God-fearing people of the town, and the colonists feared for their lives.

Then, sighing deeply, Silas Carmichael, the carpenter, and most respected man in Philadelphia, rose to his feet. He was a bear of a man, strong, with a grizzled, black mane on his head which was slowly, but surely, fading to gray. Rubbing a hand along the scruff on his chin, he began to speak. "Well, gentlemen, it looks like we have a demon in our midst".

This broke the spell, and the colonists erupted into chatter. "I saw it with my own eyes!" Said a thin, reedy man, "His leg healed all by itself! The bone just moved back into his leg; it's the work of the Devil!" Several shouts echoed his sentiment.

A woman with a baby in her arms spoke up "And his brother! The child never grows. He's the same age he was when he first arrived!"

"He _should_ be my age", said a girl with dark hair, about eleven or twelve, "We used to pick on him before he broke Bick's arm".

An outcry went out among the assembled colonists. "Mary!" Another twelve-year-old, a boy. "We promised that we'd never tell anybody!"

"I'm sorry!" The girl shouted back, "But I can't keep quiet anymore. I'm scared", she began to cry.

A plump woman turned to her son, a beefy boy with a vaguely stupid expression on his face. " _That's_ how you broke your arm? Why didn't you tell me?"

The boy shrugged, embarrassed, and mumbled something along the lines of "Didn't want to get in trouble". His cheeks turned –beet red as the assembled colonists stared at him.

Silas clapped his huge hands together, and regained the colonists' scattered attention. "Hey, hey! Yes, we've already decided that the two of them are no good. But now we need to figure out just what we're going to do about it".

"Everyone knows that there's only one thing to do about demons", said a farmer, pitchfork already in hand. He paused for dramatic effect as the colonists gaped at him. "Burn 'em"

A solemn silence fell in the meeting house as the colonists processed what they would very quickly have to do to the people that they'd known for several years. Some might have been thinking that they had seemed like such nice boys, while some of the others might have suspected their true natures all along. People are strange like that. But we may never know just what the colonists were thinking at that moment, because they will very quickly become irrelevant to the story at large.

Just then, the Minister's wife, a young woman with flowing blonde hair, stood up. She couldn't hold back and be a good wife anymore. "You're suggesting that we burn a child, _a child,_ alive?"

"That's ain't no child", the farmer replied, "It's that demon's spawn. He'll create more like him, you'll see. Snatch your children in the night. Replace them with changelings". He waved his hands around in sweeping gestures to illustrate his point. A little girl burst into tears.

But the Minister's wife stood strong. "Is that what the Good Book tells us?" She asked the crowd. "To burn innocent children alive because of something that we don't understand? God says to 'Love thy neighbor'. Is this what He would want?"

Another man, a second farmer, rose to his feet. "Them two be the servants of Satan! God would want us to purge them from His earth". A chorus of affirmation rose up behind him. The crowd rose to its feet, grabbing pitchforks and torches, shouting and hollering.

"This isn't right! He's just a child!" The Minister's wife screamed above the cacophony, but either the mob didn't hear her, or they didn't care to.

"We'll burn that house down while they sleep!" Yelled Travis the blacksmith, raising his fist into the air, and the mob followed him, shouting for blood. They ran to the doors of the meeting house and opened them, spewing out into the night like Bloodhounds after a scent.

Only the Minister's wife remained. She sobbed into her hands at the injustices of this world and the bloodlust of man. What place did she live in where people were so eager to destroy the things that they did not understand, even if that thing happened to be a child? It was simply barbaric.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, then, and looked up, eyes puffy, nose running down her face, to see Silas Carmichael staring back at her, sympathy in his eyes. "Those boys'll be alright. You'll see", he said gruffly.

"I know", she sputtered, "They can't die, after all. It's just that ... I can't believe how blind these people are. How their fear controls them".

"Think how scared they'd be if they knew what they _actually_ are". He paused, considering. "Maybe it's best if they _do_ think of them as demons".

She wiped her tears away on a white sleeve, tried to smile. But her face remained grim. "The boy is so young, though. No one should have to live through something like this at such and age. In an ideal world—"

"Well, we don't live in an ideal world, do we, Bessie?" He said, a little too harshly. He softened. "They'll be alright. I just hope they can run quickly"...

* * *

 _Really jamming on "Cecilia and the Satellite" by Andrew Mcmahon while writing this chapter. Totally check him out._

 _Anyway, same time, same place, next week? Excellent. See you then._


	4. The Farewell

_Back again! This chapter's a little shorter, sorry about that. Also thanks everyone for putting up with the fluff, but it's needed background for the shit that is very quickly about to go down. Also got a little surprise for you all next week :). It's my spring break, so let's just say that I have a little extra time to write._

 _This chapter is not the best I've ever written. Guess I'm really ready to move into the next section, which will hopefully be a little more exciting! Anyway, just bear with it, and I promise that it will get better! Thanks everyone!_

* * *

Chapter Four

The Farewell

Fire is a terribly tricky thing. One minute, you can be sitting in front of the telly without a care in the world, everything is just fine, no complaints, and then the next, someone will be sniffing the air and asking "Do you smell something burning?" And you'll all realize that the kitchen is on fire because someone left a pan on the stove. This is exactly what happened to Arthur and Alfred, except that in this case the pan was a mob of angry colonists, and they were not watching the telly because it wouldn't be invented for three-hundred and fifty years yet.

Arthur had a knapsack on the bed, and was currently shoving a seemingly random assortment of clothing into it. They had decided to use the cover of night to make their escape from the town, and he could only hope that they could leave quickly enough, before the colonists did something rash. He was trying to pack as quickly as he could, but he still couldn't seem to find his coat. Nights, even summer ones, were deadly cold here in America.

Ah, yes, he remembered now: he'd draped it over his chair in the front room. "Alfred", he instructed the boy, who was standing next to him, looking worried, "Go get my coat from the front room, will you?" Arthur was trying his best to appear calm, but Alfred knew that something was seriously wrong. He nodded, though, and pattered from the room to find the garment.

Arthur continued his furious packing. Shirts, shoes, what did they _really_ need? So focused was he on the task of getting them out of this very bad situation as quickly as he could that he almost didn't hear Alfred's call from the next room. "Arthur..." He said nervously.

"What is it?" Shouted Arthur, a little too sharply. You couldn't possibly blame him, though, especially not at a time like this.

"C'mere", said Alfred.

Sighing, Arthur abandoned the knapsack and strode into the front room. "Can't this wait?" He began. "I'm very bu—"

He stopped as he caught that distinctive smoky smell that stung his nose. Something was burning. And then he saw Alfred. The boy was simply pointing, at a loss for words, at the kitchen door. Arthur turned, and very swiftly realized that it was enveloped in flames. "Oh no", he mumbled. They were too late. The colonists _had_ done something rash; they were going to burn them alive.

There was a series of shouts from behind the front door, and running to the window, Arthur caught a glimpse of a practical horde of colonists with torches and pitchforks. They screamed for blood as they lit the front door on fire. "Come on!" He yelled, grabbing Alfred's hand and pulling him back towards the bedroom, which was the only room in the house currently _not_ on fire.

But Alfred resisted. What was wrong with him? Arthur pulled on his arm again, but the boy didn't budge. It was that damned unnatural strength of his. "Wait!" He screamed over the roar of the flames. "My feather! It's in the kitchen!".

"We'll have to leave it behind", Arthur yelled, pulling futilely one more time. Alfred's eyes widened, and began to fill with tears, although whether that was from pure feelings of remorse, or the thick, black smoke that was slowly enveloping the room in it's deathly embrace.

"No!" He said, beginning to ball. "It was my sister's!"

Oh for Christ's sake! They were going to be burned alive at this rate. Arthur had learned from experience that being covered in flames from head to toe while screaming in pain was not fun. At all. They wouldn't die from it, of course, but the pain would be so bad that they'd probably wish they were. He'd just have to go and get the damn thing.

"Go into the bedroom", he instructed, coughing. "I'll get it".

Alfred smiled and ran through the door to the bedroom. Arthur tore off a bit of his sleeve and placed it over his mouth, making a make-shift smoke-screen. This was going to hurt. A lot. But it was better than sitting there and doing nothing. He took a deep breath, steeled himself. Better do this quickly.

Kicking in the wooden door, Arthur realized that the kitchen was a mess of flames and destruction. The far wall had a large hole in it from where the hungry flames had eaten it, and the smoke was unbearable. Arthur started coughing, despite the smoke-screen, which was never going to be that effective with this must smoke anyway. But he had to find the feather. He ran into the room, hopping from foot to foot to avoid the fire as best as he could.

The feather was nowhere to be seen. Not on the counter, not on the mantle over the hearth, not _anywhere_. Arthur had started wheezing now. He wasn't going to last much longer. And his feet were burning in their leather boots. He tried to stamp out the flames, but the fire was absolutely everywhere now.

Then, as if by magic, a breeze flowed through the ever-increasing hole in the far wall. It was brief, and small, certainly not enough to put out the fire, but enough so that the feather, where ever it had been hiding, was able to catch onto the wind and blow high up into the air over Arthur's head, unharmed. He began laughing, giddy, as he reached up to catch it.

Prize in hand, he ran from the kitchen to find that the fire had spread to the whole of the front room, and had begun to move into the bedroom. Alfred was in there! He heard it then, over the roar and whoosh of the flames: Alfred was screaming. Arthur began to run across the burning room, only to be stopped when he heard a large cracking sound over his head, and one of the roof's big support beams came crashing down right in front of him. It was now little more than a burning mass of fire and pain.

"I'm coming Alfred!" He shouted, dancing from foot to foot as he tried to find a way around this new obstacle. But there were none. The beam stretched all of the way across the room, from wall to wall, every inch burning as ashes blew off of the top. Arthur was just going to have to go over it.

Sticking the feather in his shirt pocket and out of harm's way, Arthur braced himself, then ran at the beam. It was large, and he had to place his bare hands on the burning log in order to vault himself over; there was an audible sizzling noise and an over-whelming smell of cooking flesh as he did so.

But then he was over and hurdled head-first into the bedroom, and there was Alfred, covering his face in the corner of the room as the flames licked hungrily at him. The knapsack, still on the bed, was relatively unharmed, just a bit singed. Arthur quickly grabbed it, letting out a gasp of pain as his burnt hands touched the straps, and ran over to Alfred, bodily picking him up and flinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The boy didn't resist, just coughed and whispered hoarsely: "Did you get it?"

"The feather? Yeah, I got it", said Arthur. He turned back to the front of the house, only to see that their only exit was blocked by an encroaching wall of flames. They were trapped. The heat of the flames and smoke burned his lungs as Arthur breathed it in, and the whole house glowed a sickly orange. He _had_ to get them out of here. He couldn't watch this small child go through something as traumatic as being burned alive.

Arthur turned around in a circle, trying to find a viable exit, when his eyes came to rest on the big bay window overlooking the bedroom. Broken glass embedded in his skin did not sound like a good time to Arthur, but it was better than being consumed by fire, wasn't it?

"This might … sting a little", he shouted in between coughing fits. There was no response from the lump on his shoulder. Arthur backed up as far as he could, and bracing himself, ran head-first into the window.

It is often at this point in a story when the hero—or heroine, depending—will close his eyes and take a running leap of faith through the plate glass window in slow motion, signifying that the hero can no longer be controlled by the people that are inevitably oppressing him. But if a person were really to attempt something like that, they would most likely miss the window entirely and crash face-first into the wall. So Arthur did _not_ close his eyes. And confidentially, he wasn't the hero of this story anyway...

He didn't remember much after that. It all kind of melded into a blur of pain and confusion. He supposed later that he must have been able to get up and stagger a few paces into the forest before collapsing into a bleeding mess on the forest floor, or else the colonists would have found them.

The next thing he remembered, the sun was bleeding through his closed eyelids, and something was poking him. More specifically, something was poking his face. "Arthur?" When he didn't move, the thing began to shake him vigorously. "Arthur! Come on, dude. Wake up!" Arthur coughed a bit, clearing his lungs of the stale smoke that still sat in them, and groaned. Coughing hurt.

There was a gasp near his ear, and the shaking increased. "Brother!" Ow, ow, ow. Every moment sent stabs of pain up his body.

"Shtaaaap", he mumbled, and the shaking abruptly ceased. Arthur opened his eyes a crack, then closed them again as the harsh morning sun burned them. Alfred sat over him, primed and ready to start poking him again. He looked very worried. "I'm okay", Arthur croaked, hacking up a lung.

"Thank god!" Alfred exclaimed. "I was just about to have to give you the kiss of life!" Arthur tried to sit up, wheezing as he laughed, but fell back down again. He started to run a hand through his soot-covered hair, but then sucked in a breath and promptly stopped as the blistering skin on his palm made contact. Once again, Arthur sat up, and actually managed it this time.

And he was, of course, promptly glomphed by Alfred, who was almost able to knock him right back down again. "I was so scared!" He said, "I thought you weren't coming back!"

"I said I'd come back, didn't I?" Asked Arthur. "A gentleman always keeps his word". Alfred released him from the bone-crushing hug, and sat back on his haunches. His face was covered in blotches, but other than that, the boy seemed relatively unharmed. "Oh!" Arthur remembered, reaching into his shirt pocket. "Your feather". Alfred smiled, delighted, and took it carefully, shaking the soot off with reverence. It was a miracle that it remained untouched by the fire.

"Thanks".

"They've got to be close by!" The two froze where they sat as several voices echoed through the forests. It was the colonists. They knew that they were not dead.

Alfred's eyes grew wide. "Shh", Arthur whispered, and motioned for Alfred to follow him in the opposite direction of the colonists. He could only hope that Boston was in this direction.

* * *

For three days they skulked through the wilderness, not saying a word and jumping at small noises. They were dirty, and exhausted, but still very much alive. The colonists continued to hunt them for the better part of the first day, but very quickly gave up. Either that or they'd actually left them far behind.

Alfred was visibly shaken. His eyes remained in a perpetual state of surprise, and the practical waterfall of words that were known for spilling out of his mouth of their own accord were oddly absent. The silence was unnerving for Arthur, who was by now so used to the constant chatter going on in the background that having it suddenly gone was unbalancing. He half expected the dialogue to recommence at any minute, and when they didn't, he grew worried.

"Are you alright?" He asked, as they worked their way over the uneven forest floor. Alfred nodded, but then jumped a foot in the air when he landed on a stick, which made a loud crack as it folded under his weight. The boy was most certainly not alright, but Arthur let it slide.

They stumbled along for a few hours, and were eventually able to head east when they came upon a clearing in the middle of the dense vegetation, and saw the sky overhead. Soon, their burns began to heal, and by the end of the day the blisters on Alfred's face had become nothing more than a sheen of pink on his cheeks. Arthur's hands were better as well, which made it less of a complete hell to try to carry the knapsack along, but they had been burned far worse than Alfred's cheeks, and began to peel, so that by nightfall the knapsack strap was covered in dry, flaked-off skin.

It got dark quickly, even more so under the cover of the trees. They walked for as long as they could, but Arthur's knees soon felt like they were about to give out underneath him, and Alfred's eyes had lost their usual shimmer. So they set up camp. Alfred, with his knowledge of the land, was able to scrounge up a few edible nuts and berries to eat, while Arthur set about lighting a fire. They would need the heat to last the cold night, because much to his dismay, in his hurry, Arthur had forgotten to pack blankets. So they spent the night shivering and listening to the howls of distant wolves.

At some point in the night, Alfred managed to fall into an uneasy sleep, snuggled next to Arthur. But Arthur himself slept very little. He was troubled by the rashness of the colonists. They were fighters, that much was certain, and passionate about what they believed in. After witnessing the fervor of America's people, Arthur wasn't exactly sure that these were good qualities for them to possess.

The second day was uneventful, mostly just a lot of walking through the humid woods. They _did_ find a stream at some point, almost choking in their effort to re-hydrate after almost twenty-four hours without that essential substance. But mostly, they just walked on in silence.

On the third morning, however, they stumbled upon a road. This made walking quite a bit easier, and at this point, Arthur was sure that that was all he'd be doing for the rest of his miserably long life. A horse-pulled cart rumbled past them, filled with a heavy load of wheat, and the driver was able to point them in the right direction towards Boston. He was helpful, but eyed their burnt clothes and wary expressions suspiciously. He moved on quickly, and left them to go on their way.

Finally, they began to see small farms and other signs of civilization that could only mean they were closing in on the city. They saw people too. Men, women, old ladies, babies, so many people, probably more than Alfred had ever seen in one placed. He watched them all pass, and seemed to have a strange look of pride plastered on his face. But the people seemed to keep their distance from the two of them. Arthur couldn't blame them though; the two of them _did_ look like they'd just come through a war zone. None-the-less, Arthur didn't notice, because he was too busy thinking about how nice a bath would be right now.

Boston was big. Not London big, of course, London claimed almost half a million people in it's citizenry, but for the New World, Boston was positively massive. As they walked into the city proper, Arthur watched as Alfred's eyes grew to the size of saucers. He seemed to momentarily break out of his shell-shock as he let out an awed little "woah", and turned his head this way and that, rather like an owl, as he tried to look at the whole city all at once. He had never been in a city this huge before.

They walked along the side of the cobblestone street, watching the carts and horse-drawn carriages rumble down the road. People were everywhere, building things, haggling over goods, it seemed as if everyone was in some kind of hurry. Arthur took Alfred's hand, for fear that the child would run off, and he'd lose him in the cacophony. And soon, the hustle and bustle and controlled chaos of the whole city broke the boy's silence. He began to talk again, talking a mile a minute. "What's that? What are they doing? Who's _that_ guy? He looks important".

And Arthur tried to answer his many questions as best as he could while simultaneously attempting to find them a place to stay for the night, an inn or the like; one that was preferably _not_ shady. It took a while because Arthur was wholly unfamiliar with the city and he was bloody exhausted. But just as it was beginning to get dark, and Alfred started to shiver, they came across a cheerily-lit inn with a plaque hanging over the door with the words "The Eagle and Crown" written in red letters. It swung on its hinges in the slight breeze.

They entered through the squeaky wooden door, and were greeted by a pleasant, raucous peel of laughter from the bar towards the back of the room. Candles lit the small tavern with a cheery glow, and a fire roared in the corner. For the first time since their last night in Philadelphia, Arthur actually felt warm.

The Barmaid, who was wearing a rather flattering ensemble which Arthur didn't fail to appreciate, looked up from the bar as they entered. "Can you I help you boys?" She asked, approaching them. A few mugs of ale were resting on the tray which she carried, and looked awfully tempting to Arthur. But, he thought with a sigh, he did have a duty to Alfred. If he had one, he was viable to have more, and he simply wouldn't allow the child to see him inebriated.

"Yes", said Arthur, "You wouldn't happen to have any rooms free for a few nights?"

The Barmaid thought for a second. "I've got a room, if you've got money", she eyed them appraisingly, saw their soot-stained clothes and dirty faces.

Arthur dug around in his coat pocket, there were a few loose coins jangling around in there. He had more in the knapsack, but this was far more convenient. "Will this do?" He asked, placing them into her out-stretched hand. She counted the coins, then nodded, handing her tray of mouth-watering beverages to another girl.

"Follow me". She led them up the rough wood stairs, and down a narrow hall, into a small but clean room. "You can get some dinner downstairs", she said, turning to leave. "Let me know if you ... need anything". She gave Arthur a significant look. If only Alfred wasn't here. But _that_ would be highly inappropriate.

"I think we're okay", he said, and she shrugged, closing the door behind her.

Arthur and Alfred briefly contemplated going down for dinner, but at that point, the need for a good night's sleep overcame even the most awful food pangs. So tired were they that they practically collapsed into bed. Arthur's bath would have to wait until the morning.

Not able to keep his eyes open any longer, Arthur was just about to drift off to sleep, when Alfred spoke. "Arthur?" He asked through the darkness of the small room.

"Yes?" Arthur mumbled, half-asleep.

"What if it happens again? What if they try to kill us? I'm scared!"

Hey", Arthur said, opening his eyes with some difficulty. "Don't worry. I'll make sure that no one ever hurts you again. I promise". Even though he couldn't see it, he could tell that Alfred was smiling. He snuggled up close to Arthur, who fell into a deep and peaceful sleep...

* * *

A week passed. Arthur was finally able to get that bath he'd been so desperately craving ("You _do_ clean up nice", the Barmaid commented), and after a few days, they were able to acquire a more permanent residence. It was a small town house, made of bricks, in a quiet part of the city, with a bit of shrubbery out front and a little garden out back.

Arthur had been a bit worried, at first, that Alfred might begin to chaff at the lack of wilderness around, but three years of semi-civilized life seemed to have miraculously bestowed the boy with more confidence in populated areas. He had lost his energetic attitude in the least, however, and often insisted on going for long walks in the market, or another, equally noisy area, and just watching all of the different people that came to the city.

He was beginning to see it as his, the city, and all of the people in it, Arthur could tell. It had happened to him once, so long ago. One day, he'd simply had an epiphany as he looked from a tower window out onto London, that everything was _his_. It had filled him with such a strange sense of pride to see his people building and growing, becoming stronger with each passing year. And now, it seemed, the same feeling had dawned on Alfred.

There was a little voice in the back of Arthur's mind as he saw the child laugh and jump, sparkles in his eyes, at the growth of the colonies that remained uneasy. _They're not his_ , the voice would say, _They're yours. If you encourage this kind of behavior, then he may one day want to take them from you_. But Arthur pushed those evil thoughts out of his head. Sweet, innocent Alfred couldn't possibly do a thing like that, a thing so … malicious. He was only a child, after all.

It was on one of these many walks of their's that everything changed. Again. Alfred had been admiring one of the locally grown apples in a stall at the busy market, Arthur keeping an eye on him, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, coming face to face with someone very familiar. He wore a navy uniform, a sailing master probably, and was very young, maybe only twenty. He had dark, freckled skin, not uncommon for sailors, who worked outside in the hot sun.

"Captain Kirkland?" He asked in disbelief. Now Arthur could place him, the distinctive Scottish accent gave him away. He was the Swabbie from old Bess, the one whom Arthur had made captain those three and a half years ago.

"Ethan!" He exclaimed, remembering the boy's name now. He shook his hand. "It's been a long time, my old friend. How's life been treating you?"

"Splendidly", he said, grinning sheepishly, "I joined the navy as soon as I was old enough. And I was recently appointed Sailing Master (1)".

"That's wonderful!"

"And it's all thanks to you", he said. "You taught me a lot in those two years. And what about you?" He added. "I never thought I'd see my old captain in _America_ , with a _family_ none-the-less", he nodded to Alfred, who had since purchased his apple and was loudly chomping through it's shiny, red surface as he listened to them talk.

"A family?" Arthur asked, momentarily confused. "Oh!" He understood. "He's not mine! He's like … my little brother", he said, putting an arm around Alfred's shoulder. "Poor boy didn't have anybody to look after him, so I sort of took him under my wing".

Alfred smiled up at him, and took another huge bite out of his apple that was largely disproportionate to the actual size of his mouth.

"So, how are things in England?" Arthur asked.

"Ruddy awful", Ethan replied earnestly, shaking his head. "King James is a bloody Catholic, after all (2)".

Arthur's grip tightened on Alfred's shoulder, who didn't seem to notice. "King _James_? What happened to Charles?"

"He died more than a year ago, Mate", Ethan laughed, "Where have you been living? Under a rock?"

"Things have been … somewhat hectic around here lately".

They talked for a few more minutes before parting ways, but Arthur's mind hadn't been on the conversation. Charlie, his old friend, was dead, and he hadn't even been there to see him off. He'd forgotten that he was mortal, that he was going to die, and it kind of hurt, he had to admit. But more importantly than his feelings was the fact that another, wholly unpleasant man now sat on the throne of England. He needed to go back, that much was certain. With Charlie dead, there was simply no one to tell the new monarch about his existence, and the more he waited, the harder it would be to explain the situation.

The bugger of it all would be that he couldn't take Alfred with him. He had no idea how long he'd be gone, and trying to keep Alfred calm and quiet while he dealt with inevitably long and tedious matters would not be good for anyone present. And as much as he hated to admit it, his credibility as a Nation would go down in the eyes of the new monarch if he was accompanied by a child.

Alfred made a big fuss when he told him. "No! You can't leave!" He begged. "Not you too!" He glomphed Arthur as per usual, his tears staining his shirt. It broke his heart a little, but he didn't really have any choice.

"I'll only be gone a few months", he said, trying not to tear up himself, "And then things will go back to normal, alright?"

"But", the boy began, "But what if it happens again? What if I have to run and you can't find me?"

"You forget you're a Nation, my boy", Arthur said, "I'll be able to find you wherever you go". It was a lie, he didn't have a Nation Compass, remember? But it seemed to cheer the boy up, who sniffed up his tears, ran a hand under his nose.

He nodded. "Okay".

So, Arthur had booked passage on a merchant ship bound for London, and spent a last few, happy days with Alfred, seeing the sights of Boston, smiling and laughing, but he couldn't help the sinking feeling that this would be the last time. And then the big day came, and after a brief farewell on the dock, the ship pulled out of the harbor, away from America, and back to the Mother Land.

Alfred stood on the end of the dock for as long as he could, watching the ship, and his brother, leave him behind. He was alone again. It wasn't a good feeling.

Arthur stood on the deck, breathed in the salty ocean air that he hadn't tasted for the longest time. He had a strange, twisted feeling in his gut as he thought of Alfred back on the dock, back in America. It was a guilty feeling. But Arthur shook himself. It had been a nice dream while it had lasted, but now it was time to get back to work...

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) The British Navy had two distinctive ranking systems, one for Nobles, and one for Commoners. A commoner couldn't become a captain, or anything fancy like that, but he can become a Sailing Master, which is one of the highest ranked positions, and is largely in charge of the ship.

(2) After Charles II died, his brother James II took the throne. Being Catholic, he met large resistance from the British people, and his short reign ended in 1688 when the people, led by William of Orange, abdicated him in a Glorious Revolution.

* * *

 _I'm thinking of putting shameless plugs in for the song I've really been grooving on from week to week 'cuz music helps me write. So this week is "Dual of the Fates" by John WIlliams from Star Wars Episode I. Say what you will about the prequel trilogy, but this song friggin' rocks! It is basically the song of my childhood._


	5. Interlogue

_Welcome back again, everyone! Yes, yes, I know this chapter is super short, and just what's with this interlogue crap? A major time shift is about to happen, and I thought it'd be easier to have a nice little transition chapter than to try to jump right into it, so here you go._

 _Oh, and for those of you who don't follow me as an author, my surprise from last week is that on Tuesday I uploaded a One-shot about the_ Russian _revolution. I'm just on a jam with these revolutions, aren't I?_

* * *

Interlogue

The boy wandered his land. It was vast, and wide, with blue mountains and green forests, orange deserts and yellow prairies filled with grass that blew in the wind like waves on the sea, waves that even now, his brother is rolling over with his big ship, away from his land. The boy was lonely, though he didn't want to admit it, even to himself. So he filled the days and nights with the search. Because he promised to find it, and you never break a promise.

Davie showed it to him in one of his books. _Look Alfred! Isn't that the most beautiful flower you've ever seen?_ The boy had shrugged, he'd seen others like it. But it was oh so important to Davie, who wanted to be a bot ... botan ... the boy didn't know how to pronounce it. _It's called a Botanist, silly. It's the study of plants._ And as they played in the forests that the people now called New England, after his brother, all of the way across the ocean, Davie told the boy of his dream.

 _That flower is the rarest in the world_. He pointed to the flower, blue, with petals as delicate as tissue paper, in his book. _And I'm going to be the first person to find it in the New World!_ The boy thought privately that the New World was far bigger than Davie supposed it was. He'd never be able to travel to all of the places he wanted to in search of his prize. But this gave the boy an idea: Maybe _he_ could.

For a moment, he'd been worried that his brother wouldn't be able to find him when he came back if he left the city. But then he remembered: _I'll be able to find you wherever you go_. And so the boy said goodbye to the big city, and left on his journey. He didn't say goodbye to Davie, for he was sure that he'd only be gone for a month, tops.

Off he went on his seemingly endless search for his prize, through the forests and the mountains, the deserts and the prairies, but to no avail. The blue flower eluded him still. And yet, he continued to search for it, crisscrossing his land back and forth again and again, till he was sure that he knew the whole of it by heart. Through humid marshes and cold, rocky hills, through wide, sloping plains and hidden valleys, but still, he could not find it.

The boy, at last, hung his head in defeat. His sister, with her knowledge of the land and everything in it, would have found the flower in a month. His brother, with his maps and compasses, would have found it sooner still. But the boy realized that he was neither his brother nor his sister, and that they were not here to help him. They were disappeared and over the sea and everywhere but where the boy needed them most. He was alone in his land.

In shame, the boy decided to return to the city, and tell Davie just how sorry he was, how he had failed. So the boy travelled back over his land, back towards the city and the sea. And when his journey was at an end and he came upon that great city, that beacon of civilization, he thought that it looked different somehow. Taller, bigger maybe, even more enormous than before. But to his relief, he was still able to find Davie's house without much difficulty.

However, he knew that there was something wrong the minute he approached. The last time he'd been here, the house had been newly built, a pretty white wood with tasteful trim. But now it looked older. The paint was fading, and chipped in places, and the wood near the moist foundation was beginning to rot.

"Davie?" The boy called, hoping that he was here. There was no sound for a moment; the boy waited. And then, at last, he heard it: the sound of children playing. He trundled around the side of the house, and there in the back garden was an older man playing with two kids: a girl with curly brown ringlets that bounced as she moved, and a young boy with his back to him that must have been Davie. "Davie!" He yelled to the boy, and all three turned to him. The boy was not Davie. The older man, to the boy's shock, was.

 _Yes?_ Davie smiled, not unkindly. But there was no recognition in his eyes. He didn't remember the boy.

"It's me", he said, trying to jog Davie's memory, "Alfred".

 _Do I know your parents?_

"No! You know ... you know me ..." The boy began. But he could already see that it was no use. Davie didn't remember him. Didn't remember all of the times they'd played in the forest and talked and laughed. Then a thought occurred to him: maybe if he found the flower, then he would. He'd remember his dreams of botany and how he'd told them to the boy.

"I'll ... I'll find your flower", he said, and ran.

It hurt. It hurt so badly to be forgotten. And it hurt that the boy had lost his friend, the one person he could have talked to. Even if he _had_ remembered the boy, Davie had done the one thing that the boy could never do: he had grown up. He had children of his own, a family, a perfectly ordinary human life. The boy would never be able to have any of those things.

But there was still one thing he _could_ do: he could find his flower. He increased his search ten-fold. Back through the forest, mountains, deserts, prairies, marshes, plains, hills, and valleys he searched. And this time, he _wouldn't_ give up, _couldn't_ give up. He'd find the darn thing if he had to search for a hundred years, a thousand even.

Luckily, it didn't take quite that long. In a small, quiet glade, ironically close to the city where he'd spent so much of his life, he found it. It glistened with the morning dew, perfect, standing on its toes as if reaching to the sky that its color so resembled. It waited there, just for him, and gently, gently, the boy plucked it from the earth, careful not to mar its perfect beauty.

Prize in hand, he ran back to the city, laughing and smiling. It felt strange to smile, something that he hadn't done in such a long time now. And then he came upon the old house once again. Most of the paint was gone, chipped off piece by piece by the rain and wind, and the house sat lop-sided on the ground, one side of the foundation having given completely into rot.

"Davie?" He called. But he heard only silence. "Davie?" He asked the house again, hoping that maybe in its infinite wisdom it would answer him. But all it could do was sit there with decrepit knowledge, and glance smugly at him. The boy ran around the side of the house, hoping to find the children playing as they had before. There were no happy, smiling children. There was only a man gazing sadly down into a long, wooden box.

The boy approached the scene hesitantly, sensing that there was something wrong. "Davie?" He asked once more. The man turned. He was not Davie. His expression was hollow, and two symmetrical tear-tracks ran down his face, which told the boy that he'd recently been crying.

 _He's in there_. The man nodded towards the box.

With trepidation, the boy pattered up to the box. The flower still clutched in his hand, he stood on his tip-toes, and glanced down into the box. Davie was sleeping inside. "Davie? Wake up". He poked the old man's face, but he didn't move, didn't even twitch. His skin was cold to the touch. "But ..." The boy began.

 _He's dead. Kicking up the daisies, past the pearly gates, deceased. D. E. A. D. What do I need to say to get that into your thick skull, kid?_

"But he can't be", the boy sniffled, tears beginning to flow. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. "I did it. I found his flower. He _can't_ be!" The boy dropped the flower in the mud, marring its perfect beauty, and ran. He ran away from that house, the city, and most of all, the dead man in the box, who had used to be so young and full of life. Never again, the boy would never subject himself to this horrible pain, pain that felt like his chest would explode, ever again.

 _Never again_.

The man glanced downward at the flower on the ground. He picked it up, examined it closely, his eyebrows crinkling together. _I can't believe it. That little twerp found your flower, Dad._ Then, with gentle care, placed that perfect thing in the box, and closed the lid.

* * *

 _I promise I'll have a full chapter next week! Song of the Chapter is "Baba Yetu", Composed by Christopher Tin for Civilization IV, which is also a great game. My choir's singing it currently, and I've been wanting to sing it for_ years! _So I'm super excited._


	6. The End of a War

_Back again! Man this story is beginning to become a monster! But I'm over the initial writing hump now, so it won't be over anytime soon :'). And I swear, this will be the last detour before we get back to the main plot. Basically what happened was that I finally got my hands on a book about the Revolutionary War, so I'm not just relying on the internet and what little knowledge I have from Sophomore American History, and because history does not exist in a vacuum, this book has a chapter on the French and Indian War. Then this chapter just kind of happened._

 _Anyway, as in Eight Times, I use some foreign words (in this case French though, not Russian. That would be a little strange) to reflect the nationality of the speaker. For those of you (like me) who aren't fluent in French, I've included translations under the Historical Notes. If I've happened to get something wrong (Google Translate YAY!), please don't hesitate to correct me._

 _Thanks! And enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter Five

The End of a War

September 13th, 1759

Mathieu was hungry, there was no doubt about that. The British troops had had the city of Quebec under siege for the last four months now (1), and as much as the French and Canadian soldiers didn't want to admit it, they were running out of food, quickly. The fear of nothing to eat hung over the city, for soldiers and citizens alike, and although the British soldiers and their Hell-Beast of a Nation probably couldn't feel it out in their cozy encampment, Mathieu certainly could.

It was worse for him than Francis, his brother, who had experienced hunger, much worse than this, before. It felt like hell on earth, because not only could Mathieu feel the hunger in his own belly, but also that of his soldiers as well. Kind of like a phantom hollowness. It wasn't really there, but he still felt it all the same.

But General Montcalm (2) still held out. His resolve was failing him, everyone could see it. The British were simply too strong, with too many well-trained soldiers. Even with full bellies the French wouldn't have stood a chance, but he wouldn't tell the soldiers that. He held his head high as he walked among them, a lion leading his pride. Mathieu didn't quite know how he did it, how he was able to so gracefully hide the hopelessness that was just below the surface.

"Pride", Francis had said, patting him on the shoulder. "He does not want the men to remember him as weak. You will understand when you are older, _mon frère_ *".

That made Mathieu pout a bit. He may have looked no more than fifteen years of age, but he was actually _much_ older than that. Now that he thought about it, he didn't really know his exact age, because up until Francis had found him, he had had no way of keeping track of the years. But it didn't bug him that much. He must have been at least one hundred. Compared to Francis, who had lived about ten times that, a hundred years was nothing, but in terms of a human life, it was certainly impressive. Not that Nations often considered the length of a human life that much to begin with.

It was much more than the General, who was only forty-nine, less than half of Mathieu's own years. And yet, the General just _seemed_ so much older than he, with his lined face and supreme air of wisdom and dignity about him, and it really hit home for Mathieu just how short and fragile human lives were. That this man among men, who had lived such a spectacular life, could simply just stop existing was hard to think about.

But, whether it was mentioned or not, the soldiers knew that their days were numbered. It was only a matter of time before the British found a way past their defenses, and if they didn't, the soldiers and citizens of the fair city would simply die of starvation. Mathieu and Francis feared for them. Mathieu, for his part, hadn't ever met Britain's Nation in person, but he had heard plenty of stories from Francis. Violent stories that maybe a man had no business telling a little boy, but he'd heard them, and that was that.

The Nation was ruthless, didn't care in the least about human life, killing soldiers and civilians with glee and using his own as cannon fodder. He was completely immoral. A bad combination. But Mathieu supposed that that was how you won a war. How else could he have beaten his older brother time and time again?

"Maybe we pushed him too hard", Francis remarked after Mathieu had asked him how someone could become so cruel. "Antonio and I and all of the others _did_ knock that chétif petit avorton* down in the dirt quite a few times", he laughed then, as if the memory was pleasant. "But one day I guess he'd just had enough and that was that. Time to take over the world!"

Mathieu decided that he never wanted to meet him. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side. It had been a breezy autumn day, and Mathieu and Francis were meeting with the General in the barracks to work out strategies when the attack began. The three of them had been sitting around a table with a map of the city resting on it, covered in bits of metal which represented various groups of soldiers. Mostly, Mathieu just sat and watched the two of them, arguing back and forth about various plans of action, and he'd been just about to fall asleep when his heart had leapt in his chest for no reason that he could understand.

Quebec was built on a hill, and thinking that the British would try to attack from the lower city, it being a far easier target, the General had focused his main fighting force there. Apparently, they had found one of the trails that past the lower city entirely and gave them direct access to the upper city, and caught the French and Canadian troops unawares.

When they heard the gunshots, Francis ran to the window. They were up three stories, so it was easy to see the city below. And what he saw made him expel a series of choice words in French.

"What is it?" Asked the General, rising from his chair.

"It is the British!" Francis shouted. "I don't know how, but they are attacking!"

"What?!" The General instinctively grabbed the sword from his belt. It was mostly ornamental, not in use by the common soldier anymore, who favored rifles and bayonets for close range. But a sword was still a sword. Ornamental or not, the stab to the gut that some poor sob would receive would certainly not be symbolic. "I must aid my men at once", he began to run to the door, but Francis stood in his way.

"Let me through, Francis", he snarled, "I will not sit back and watch my men die".

Francis shook his head. "But what good to them are you dead?" He asked.

"A hero", the General raised his sword.

But Francis didn't back down. "Non", he said, "You are an _idiot_. We cannot win this war without you, Monsieur".

It was then that the pain hit Mathieu. His people had been in battles, in _wars_ , before, but he had never been _this_ close to the fighting. He screamed as he felt the pain of his soldiers. Countless bullets pierced his flesh. Every injury inflicted on the battlefield, Mathieu felt it. He was being kicked into the ground and trampled by horses, thrown against the side of a building, the bones in his spine cracking, blown to bits by cannons, shot and killed a thousand different ways all at once. Francis and the General ceased their bickering as they looked back to see Mathieu writhing in agony.

Francis must have been feeling the exact same thing right at this very moment, Mathieu knew. He twitched slightly as the noise of the gunshots barreled through the window. But he had experienced this feeling, this horror of war, so many countless times that he must have been used to the pain by now.

"Help him", the General commanded, and used Francis' hesitation to push him out of the way and make a break for the door. He didn't make it very far. Just as he was through the doorway, and about to begin the trek down the stairs, the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired rose from the stairwell and the General fell back into the room with a thump.

A pause, and then, from the depths of the stairwell, came a laugh, a laugh so cold that Mathieu was surprised ice wasn't forming on the walls. "Francis, are you up there, old chap?" Came a voice, menacing, and very British. "Spotting day for genocide, isn't it?"

"British pig", Francis muttered, strategically placing himself between Mathieu and the door, which in a moment became occupied.

Britain's Nation, for that is who the man must have been to be so familiar with Francis, was shorter than Mathieu had been expecting. He had been under the impression that this was a guy who towered over other men as he kicked them face-first into the dirt, but Mathieu did have to grudgingly admit that the way he held himself with such confidence made him seem taller. The Nation smirked, leaning on his rifle like it was a gentleman's cane. It seemed that he was right in his element, that war, murder, _genocide_ as he had put it, _was_ his element.

"Arthur", Francis greeted him, but the word was filled with such loathing that the said Nation's eyes flashed murder for a second before he regained his cool.

Approaching Francis, and ignoring Mathieu altogether, Arthur smirked, shark-like. "I would have thought that you lot would have come out to fight us honorably by now, but I guess you've grown soft, Toad".

Any other time, Francis probably would have spit in the man's face who called him "Toad", but a strange change had occurred in Francis, one that Mathieu had never seen before. He _smiled_ , actually full-out grinned as if he was having the time of his life. Sure, odds were that at any given moment Francis was smiling, but never at times as deadly serious as this, when soldiers were dying all around them.

He shrugged Arthur's jab off like it was nothing. "Any other time we would have", he said, "But we couldn't stand the smell of you British _swine_ ".

Arthur's face changed from a look of pure confidence to one of pure rage faster than Mathieu could blink. He didn't look quite as tall now, and Mathieu could see that his previous swagger had been nothing more than a convincing act, one that Francis could obviously see through. "I believe all of this gunfire has made me quite deaf", he said through gritted teeth as he leaned closer to Francis, trying to appear intimidating. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said you stink", Francis said and smirked, looking down at the shorter man from his few extra inches of height.

"Why don't you say that to my fist?" Arthur whispered menacingly, no less than an inch away from his face.

Francis merely laughed. "If it can stand to mar such perfect beauty", and at this he flipped a strand of his blonde flowing locks, "Then I invite it to be. My. Guest".

Mathieu was fully convinced that a fight would have broken out right then and there if not for the cannon that had taken out three of Mathieu's soldiers at that very second. He cried out in pain as he felt his limbs being torn from his body and a giant metal ball ripped through his chest. It was quiet, but enough to draw Arthur's attention, who looked over Francis' shoulder at the young man as if he hadn't seen him sitting there just a second ago.

He _did_ tend to have that effect on people. They tended not to notice he was there unless he purposefully drew attention to himself. It made him feel oddly invisible, which was cool on occasion, but more often just isolating. Now he was just mad at himself that he blew it.

"Oh, and who are you?" Arthur asked, pushing past Francis to get a better look at Mathieu, who shrunk in his chair.

"Leave him alone", Francis growled, his odd smile fading.

"Is this Canada?" Mathieu tried to back away, but was unfortunately still sitting in a hard wooden chair, which caught on the rough grained floor as he tried to scoot back and wouldn't budge.

Francis gripped the Brit's shoulder. "I said to leave him alone, you tea-guzzling bastard".

But Arthur paid him no heed. "Hello", he said to Mathieu, holding out a gloved hand, "Arthur Kirkland. A pleasure to meet you". Mathieu hesitantly took it, scared positively shitless. "And you are?"

"Mathieu … Bonnefoy", Mathieu managed to squeak out.

Arthur crinkled his nose as if he smelled something deplorable. "Mathieu?" He asked, disbelieving. "It sounds so bloody _French_ ". He spat the last word out, clear on the fact that it pained him to say it. "Tell you what: Why don't you jump _this_ sinking wreck", he motioned to Francis, "and hop aboard the good ship Britain".

"You-" Mathieu paused, not sure if he understood. "You want me to become one of your colonies?"

"Precisely, my boy", Arthur said, elbowing Francis in the ribs as he tried to interject. "This war's as good as won, so you might as well just surrender now".

"Why you-" Francis sputtered, at a loss for words, but once again, Arthur shooshed him.

"Let the boy decide for himself".

Mathieu glanced back and forth between the two men, feeling the immense pressure that is often associated with life-changing decisions such as these, while Arthur gloated and Francis stared silently at him, pleading with his eyes. It was so very hard to concentrate, because not only was he sitting in this hard chair right now, but he was also out on the battlefield, his heart jumping in his chest as he dodged a smattering of bullets and shot blindly away at men in red uniforms.

Then, as he tried to concentrate, he came upon the sudden realization that the choice was easy. "I..." He began, and both of the Nations leaned in in anticipation. "I think I'm alright where I am. Thank you though". He simply couldn't abandon his brother who had up until now practically raised him, even if he was losing this war.

Arthur's face quickly grew red with rage. "I guess idiots stick together, then", he turned to leave the room, flipping his red coat behind him. "Have fun being crushed". The Brit stepped over the General, still on the ground, blood pooling underneath him slowly, and began to walk past when the General grabbed his ankle.

"On the contrary", he wheezed as he spoke, "It is you, _Mon ami_ *, who will be crushed".

Laughing, Arthur leaned down to look the dying General squarely in the face. "In case you haven't noticed, mate", he grinned like a shark, " _You_ are currently the one who is losing, not me".

The General coughed, blood spattering his cheeks. "In my defeat and your conquest, you _will_ find your tomb (3)".

Arthur cocked his head, confused. "And just what do you mean by _that?_ " But it was too late, the General, smiling, had breathed his last breath, and lay there, dead on the floor, the meaning of his last words lost forever.

* * *

February 10th, 1763

The cold winter wind whipped past Arthur as he stood on his balcony over the great city of Paris, which was frosted with a little covering of snow largely resembling frosting. It _was_ a beautiful town, he had to admit, especially in winter, and warmer than London at this time of year, but he just couldn't get comfortable. He and this city had a history. A _bloody_ history.

He could still hear them sometimes, the countless people, countless _children_ that he'd murdered in cold blood. The clink of chain-mail rang in his ears as they screamed. But he didn't hear them then, didn't hear them begging for mercy as he raised his long sword above his head and brought it down, and all he could see was red. Red, red, red. Red on him, red on the ground, red on the walls of the fair city.

And he shivered, the cold bringing him back to the present, back to the city dusted with white. Arthur put his pipe to his lips, a few of the burning embers catching on the frigid breeze. The tobacco helped a little, the whiskey too. The women though, not so much. He could never help feeling a little guilty after _those_ escapades.

It was all just an endless ruddy cycle, wasn't it? Just as soon as he managed to get himself into a pretty decent place, another war would start, or a rebellion would have to be quelled, and Arthur would fall right back into that pit of bloodlust and rage that was ever so difficult to climb his way back out of. He didn't _want_ to give into it, never did, but it seemed as if Britain never won anything unless he did. So back down the rabbit-hole of insanity he would fall, and by the time he found some semblance of reality, the cycle would begin again.

There had been a break though, once. Had to have only been a few years ago, when he'd gone to America, when he'd met Alfred. He still couldn't quite believe how much of a sop that little Nation had turned him into. The poor boy probably missed him. But he'd be back, just as soon as he finished business here.

This war had lasted almost nine years (4), _nine_ _bloody years_ , but it was finally over now, and Britain had, of course, emerged victorious, as it always did. Arthur accredited it partially to his almost scary ability to compartmentalize. He would never get involved with the battle at hand. It was nothing personal, just us vs. them, whoever "they" happened to be at any given time, which was more often than not France, and there would be no mushy feelings of compassion or remorse on the battlefield. That always came afterwards.

But now there was—inevitably temporary—peace between the three great powers of Europe, which would be finalized in a peace treaty that would be signed that very day. Being the undeniable victor, Arthur could technically demand anything he wanted from the Tomato Bastard and the Toad-faced Ass, but he had to be smart about his terms. He couldn't keep everything he'd conquered, it would be way too hard to maintain it all. Guadeloupe wouldn't be worth it, nor Spain's Cuba, their Nation was an annoying little twat anyway. No, he needed something that would really hurt Francis, something that he would plead to keep, only to have it snatched out of his hands like candy from a baby, something precious to him, something like...

Something like _Canada_.

Oh yes, Arthur still remembered the battle at Quebec, how Francis had tried to protect his young colony. And his name: Mathieu _Bonnefoy_. He'd even given the little brat his own surname. Not even Arthur himself, who had a bloody load of colonies by now, had ever given one of them that important, yet intangible thing. Not even Alfred.

Young Mathieu _did_ share some similarities with Alfred, now that he thought about it. They looked almost identical, almost to the point of twin brothers, with their flax blonde hair and blue eyes, but that's where the comparison ended. Where Mathieu was quiet and reserved, Alfred was bold, where he was nervous and jittery, Alfred was confident. Honestly, Arthur wasn't exactly sure how the former had managed to become so quiet in the presence of _Francis_ twenty-four hours a day, but Alfred just had something, a spark about him, that endeared him more deeply to Arthur than Mathieu ever could.

Oh, but it would hurt Francis so much to see his favorite, his Canada, taken from him, and made anew as a loyal colony to the British crown, that Arthur grinned from ear to ear just thinking about it. And maybe, in time, he would learn to love the young Nation, maybe almost as much as Alfred. He really should go back to see the boy soon, shouldn't he?

He couldn't wait to see the look on Francis' face when he laid down his demands, couldn't wait to see the man broken, just as he had broken him so many times before. More cycles, this one of revenge.

Arthur went back into his room because the cold was beginning to sink into his bones. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he realized that he only had a half-an-hour to get ready and meet the various representatives from Spain and France. Arthur smiled to himself.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

Francis was drunk again. He sat sprawled over the kitchen table, the nearly empty bottle of wine resting a short distance away from him; he clinked his fingernails against the glass absently, making a high-pitched ping to rival the bells of Notre Dam. It was a little pathetic, his usually glowing blonde locks hanging limply over his face, his eyes dead and vacant. But everyone dealt with war and its consequences in different ways.

Mathieu sighed and approached his brother. "Maybe you've had enough, eh?" He grabbed the bottle from the table. Francis reached upwards feebly to snatch it back, but too slow. The small amount of liquid at the bottom swirled around as Mathieu pulled it out of reach and set it on a high shelf. Seeing that the bottle was gone, and far too lazy and drunk to get it from its perch, Francis' head hit the table, and he groaned. Mathieu patted his shoulder and pulled up a chair. He sat across the table from his brother, trying to fathom how anyone could do this to themselves.

He waited patiently. In just a moment, a slew of slurred words would produce themselves from Francis' mouth, breaking the odd silence of their small apartment. He didn't disappoint. Francis was a talkative drunk, a concept that Mathieu had become very familiar with over the past week leading up to the peace treaty.

"I am a failure, Mathieu" he mumbled to the table. Mathieu sighed again. He'd been doing an awful lot of it these last few days. But he had a credible excuse; they had just had this same conversation yesterday.

"Why are you a failure?" He asked, knowing very well that Francis would continue without his input, but trying to add something new to this same old boring sweater of a dialog all the same.

Francis lifted his head a bit, to gaze at Mathieu with cloudy eyes. "I couldn't protect you, _mon frere",_ he sighed dramatically, and Mathieu tried to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "You shouldn't have had to witness bloodshed at such a young age".

"I'm not as young as you think", Mathieu frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "I must be nearly a hundred by now".

"Just a _bebe*",_ Francis wailed with his usual flair. It got even worse when he was intoxicated, almost to intolerable levels. "So young. So inexperienced! And now I'm going to lose you before I have a chance to teach you all you need to know!"

Mathieu interjected, leaning forward in his chair. "Wait", he paused, "Lose me? What do you mean? I'm not going anywhere".

"That British pig", Francis said, practically growling, "He's going to take you from me".

"How, eh?" Mathieu asked, not quite able to understand.

"The peace treaty", Francis ran a hand through his hair, "He can take anything he wants, because I lost." His head fell back on the table again.

"Oh, geez", Mathieu muttered, realizing just what that meant for him. Arthur _could_ take anything he wanted, and hated Francis with a passion to boot. He'd want to hurt him, in the most excruciating way possible. Which meant taking him. Mathieu didn't know how he should feel. He was nervous, angry, and just a little scared all at once. But one of them had to be strong, had to be a rock, and glancing over as his inebriated brother, Mathieu saw that he wasn't going to be any of those things any time soon.

"I remember the good old days", Francis continued without heed, waxing lyrically. "William the _Conqueror_. That's what they're calling him now. He was a great man. Saw that tiny island and just decided to take it, just because they looked at him funny. Went out there with an army and gave those British swine a good kick in the pants!"

He laughed heartily, clearly reliving that particularly happy part of his history, when he was interrupted by the massive bells of Notre Dam, muted over the snow-covered city. Once. Twice. Three times. That meant that they only had a half-an-hour to get Francis sobered up and looking somewhat presentable enough to meet with Britain and Spain. Half-an-hour till Mathieu's world would be flipped upside down. Half-an-hour to say goodbye.

He didn't know how, but Mathieu somehow managed it all without much help from Francis. Except that last one, there simply hadn't been enough time. They managed to track down the various pieces of Francis' military uniform which was strewn around the apartment, the fancy one for official occasions, and arrived just in time for the negotiations to begin.

They all met in a big room, with thin windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, more for decoration than for actually seeing anything out of them, and plush carpets on the floor. The French and Spanish officials sat on one side of the room, the British on the other. They eyed each other suspiciously, us vs. them. And there, sitting in the best chair, looking like he owned the place, was Arthur, a smirk plastered onto his thin face. Hewas clearly going to be in charge of the "negotiating" and his way was going to be the only way.

And that was just the way it went. Arthur simply sat there, legs crossed, the fingers on his hands forming a triangle like some kind of evil mastermind, and told them all exactly what was going to happen. He was, of course, "gracious" enough to return some of his captured colonies to their respective Nations, but he was especially hard on Francis. At one point after a particularly snide remark in Francis' general direction, Mathieu wanted to stand up and just scream at Arthur, tell him to leave his brother alone. But he kept his mouth shut. Arthur, he had learned, had a terrible temper, and he wouldn't help the situation at all by speaking his mind. And if there was one thing that Mathieu was exceptionally good at, it was keeping his mouth shut.

Arthur had saved Mathieu's fate for last. It was another sort of dramatization, in a way akin to Francis' own, but yet very different. There was a cruel twinge to it, suspense for his own benefit, and a nasty way to keep them both in the dark, keep them scared. And it worked. Very well, in fact, but Mathieu would not allow this _tyrant_ to see him shake.

Then, finally, when it seemed that all was well and accounted for, when Spain got Cuba back, the latter Nation seeming less than pleased about it, and after Francis had gotten back a slew of his own holdings, it almost seemed as if they'd forgotten about Mathieu all together. For once, he was glad they had. But then, almost as an afterthought: "Oh, one last thing", Arthur said, grinning cruelly. "I'm keeping Canada".

Mathieu's heart dropped in his chest, the way it did when something happened that he _had_ expected, but which he'd wish hadn't, happened. Francis looked downward, distraught. It seemed as if _he_ had been hoping Mathieu would be forgotten, too. But no such luck. Francis wouldn't say anything, wouldn't stand up for him, and although a small part of Mathieu wished he would, he knew that it was for the best. That would be giving Arthur exactly what he wanted.

The talk was over and settled. Arthur, Francis and Spain—Mathieu didn't know his name—and their respective leaders signed the treaty. Francis hesitated for a moment, his quill situated above the paper, and Mathieu wondered if he wouldn't sign at all. But then the quill came down, trembling slightly, and with that, Mathieu belonged to England.

They didn't even have a chance to say goodbye as the meeting adjourned and Arthur motioned for Mathieu to follow him out of the room. Mathieu looked back helplessly at Francis, secretly hoping that he would do something, stop this whole affair, but he did nothing except glance back at him apologetically as Mathieu trailed after Arthur like a lemming.

He felt numb. It didn't quite feel real. He kept thinking that in just a moment he'd be back with Francis. Sober Francis, of course. Drunk Francis kind of weirded him out. But it wasn't true. He knew that. His world was utterly changed now, for better or worse, and there was only a sense of before and after.

He followed Arthur meekly down an empty hallway, the latter's boots echoing against the hard marble floor. They walked in silence for a minute, Mathieu attempting to process what had just happened, and Arthur attempting to process just what he was going to do now that he _had_ Canada. The two of them wallowed in confusion together. And then, without warning, Arthur turned around and began to speak.

"Alright, I've been thinking", he began, almost apologetically, and Mathieu wondered if he had changed his mind about the whole affair. "I've been thinking", he repeated after a slight pause, "About this name of yours". Oh! Was _that_ all? Mathieu had just been passed to him like he was a hand-me-down shirt, but all _this_ dick-cheese was thinking about was his name.

"W-what about it?" Mathieu asked, more timidly than he'd meant to.

Arthur took in a sharp breath, as if considering how to phrase his words. "It's just so … bloody—" he stopped, lips pressed together, his unusually thick eyebrows crinkling at the center of his forehead in thought. "So bloody _French_ ", he concluded, a bit lamely. "I'm going to change it".

"What?!" Mathieu sputtered, taken aback. This man had taken everything from him: His identity as a French colony, his brother, and now he wanted to take his _name, too_? "But you can't—"

"Oh, my dear boy", said the Brit with his shark's grin, "You're _my_ colony now, so I do believe that I bloody well can". Mathieu didn't say anything, simply at a loss for words. It was like having the Parent Card pulled on you, except that your parents wouldn't _kill you,_ or at least hurt you _very badly_ , if you disobeyed.

"Good", Arthur said when he heard no objections. "Your name is Matthew now, got it? M-A-T-T-H-E-W", he spelled it out.

"I got it", said Matthew, putting as much loathing into his voice as he could possibly muster.

"And I can't have you running around with that _Baguette's_ surname. So you'll be … you'll be", he paused again, thinking. "Ah, screw it. Kirkland".

"No", said Matthew immediately, without thinking, which he immediately regretted.

Arthur leaned in very close to Matthew and said in a whisper: "What did you just say to me?"

"I … I said no", Matthew gulped, but he had to remain strong. He couldn't bare this bastard's name, he simply couldn't. "You may be able to change my name, but I will never be a Kirkland".

Arthur looked about ready to slap him, even raised his hand to do so, rage in his green eyes, to which Matthew flinched. But then he composed himself, his hand falling back to his side. "Fine", he spat, "What do _you_ want it to be, then?"

Matthew thought for a second. He wanted, no, _needed_ some small revenge against this bastard who had torn his life apart with his bare hands, laughing all the while. He thought about Francis, and their conversation from earlier in the day, and he smiled. He had the perfect name.

"Williams".

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) In 1759, the Seven Years War, known more commonly as the French and Indian War in the good old US of A, was in full swing, with the British placing the then French colony of Quebec under siege. They couldn't directly attack the city because it was on a hill, with a large concentration of soldiers in the lower city. Eventually they found one of the trails leading to the upper city, and used that to attack.

(2) Louis-Joseph de Montcalm was a French General during the Seven Years War, and was largely responsible for defending Canada, or at the time more commonly referred to as New France.

(3) He actually did say this. At least, according to "Angel in the Whirlwind", my research book on the Revolutionary War, he did. But the actual quote was "In my defeat and in _her_ conquest, _Britain_ shall find _her_ tomb". He definitely didn't say it to an Anthropomorphic Personification of Britain.

(4) The Seven Years War was a world-wide slug-fest between Britain and its eternal enemy France, who was eventually joined by the other major world power at the time, Spain. The battle was especially brutal on the North American front, which is often called the French and Indian War. As one of my awesome reviewers pointed out to me, the fighting on American soil _did_ begin two years before the rest of the war, so it actually went on for more like nine years. Thanks Paint-The-World-Mad!

 ***Le French:**

Mon frère – My Brother

Chétif petit avorton – puny little runt

Mon ami – My Friend

Bebe – Baby

* * *

 _And Arthur begins his slow but sure decent into Dick-ville. Hahahaa. Sorry Arthur, I love you man, but I've got two words for you: British Imperialism. Song of the week is "Figure it Out", by Royal Blood. See you next week!_


	7. The (Not Quite as Planned) Reunion

_Hello hello! Welcome back to yet another week of desperately trying to balance theater and_ this _monster. YAY!_

 _Also, for some reason I found myself slowly mutating into Lemony Snicket throughout this chapter. It's a strange narration style, but I had fun with it. Let me know what you think._

* * *

Chapter Six

The (Not Quite as Planned) Reunion

March 4th, 1770

Abraham Morris had a very unusual business, at least for the colonies, he supposed. Then again, he _did_ live in Boston, which had one of the biggest ports in the New World; you could sell absolutely anything there. And with a generous supply of manufactured goods coming in from the Mother Country, you could _buy_ absolutely anything there as well. Only in such a city could a business such as Morris' ever survive. You see, it catered to a rather niche clientele, mostly because most people could see just fine without help from Morris' product. Because what he actually sold were eye glasses.

He sold them for quite a sum of money, but that was simply the whole nature of the thing, wasn't it? They had to be unique for each person, which meant they couldn't be mass produced, and required an artisan of particular merit to make. Because of this, they had to be made over the sea in Europe, and were ordered on a person by person basis. Just the shipping cost was pricey, let alone the actual lenses themselves. So Morris didn't make them, he only sold them to the worldly people who could afford such luxury.

Business had been made even more difficult lately by the strange surge of patriotism that had been rapidly spreading around Boston as of late. But not patriotism to the crown, _that_ would make Morris bat an eye, but patriotism to what these stupid youngsters were calling "our country, our America!" This usually wouldn't have bothered him much, except that these revolutionaries had started rejecting all of British-made goods (1), of which eye-glasses were a part of.

Morris always rolled his eyes at such talk of "Independence" and "Revolution". Those crazy "Sons of Liberty" (2) had been making a big stink about these things lately, but Morris just saw them as a bunch of bored schoolboys who needed something better to do than standing around protesting all day and burning official's houses down. He simply couldn't understand why anyone would want to break away from Britain, who gave them everything they could possibly want. These Sons of Liberty were just acting like children who had their lives handed to them on a silver platter, and yet still begged for more.

But luckily, there were still plenty of Loyalists to the crown, many of whom had plenty of money to spend on things like spectacles. Even for those who didn't actually _need_ their vision corrected, you could only afford to buy things such as glasses if you had wealth, which people, being people, often liked to show off. And so Morris was able to keep up a good business.

Although most of his clients happened to be the very wealthy, many people came into Morris' little shop. Old men whose sight had been robbed by age, and sorely missed the joys of reading. Women whose eyes were so tired of staring at small needles in dark, candle-lit rooms that their vision became blurry and fatigued. Soldiers who were worried by their inability to ever hit a target. Mothers that feared for the child who kept running into things like trees and walls.

Morris helped them all. When he could, that is; some people tended to use their "poor vision" as an excuse for problems that they came upon, like the aforementioned soldiers. And even when he couldn't help them, he'd still take their money and order a simple pair of glasses with no correction what-so-ever. Still, oftentimes, to his great surprise, his clients swore that even the plain glass improved their vision, though there had never been problem with their eyesight in the first place. To this he simply chuckled and pocketed his fee.

This particular case, however, was not one of those. The young man who stood in his shop _did_ actually need glasses. His eyes were strangely like an old man's: he could see things just fine from a distance, but put a book under his nose and he'd claim that: "Yeah, those words are totally blurry, dude". Morris had never had a case like this before, but he was admittingly no expert. He just sold the lenses and hoped that they were actually the right kind for that client, so he supposed that the young man's case probably wasn't quite as unique as he thought it was.

There was something off about the young man, though, but Morris simply couldn't place his finger on it. Maybe it was the strange aura that seemed to surround him. He acted so young and carefree, yet seemed to emanate this strange sense of _eternity_ , yes, that was the only word that Morris could have used to describe it. It was as if he was a much older man stuck in the body of a nineteen-year-old boy.

But Morris shook himself, trying to relieve the uneasy feeling that rested in his gut. It must have simply been his mind playing tricks on him. If he was honest, it was probably the man's strange way of speaking that was so off-putting. He used words like "cool" and "awesome" bizarrely out of context, and kept saying that other strange word, "dude", that Morris had never heard before. Maybe he was from New York, down the coast. A lot of Dutch people still lived there (3). Yes, Morris could see it now. With his blonde hair and blue eyes, the man could have very easily been Dutch. He _must_ have been from New York. That was the only possible explanation.

The man gazed around the small front of the shop, which had several very pricey displays showing off the latest styles of spectacles from Europe, while Morris searched the somewhat cluttered back for the box, arrived just the other day by ship, which contained the man's new spectacles. It took a good minute, controlled chaos would be the word that Morris would use to describe his organizational pattern, but then he found it, and produced a small wooden box from a bunch of other such containers.

"Here it is!" He called, and the man ceased absently tapping the glass of a display case and approached the counter with interest. Morris placed the box on the counter, and with a dramatic flourish which his customers often appreciated, opened it.

The man looked into the box, his blue eyes twinkling. "May I?" He asked, pointing to the glasses. Morris gave the go ahead, and the man reached inside and pulled out a pair of thin-rimmed, round spectacles, the newest style from Paris. He placed them on his nose delicately, as if afraid that he might break them, and did a double-take as his eyes adjusted to the bended light coming through the glass of the spectacles. "Whoa..."

"Are they … Alright, sir?" Morris asked, having no idea if "whoa" was a good or bad term in New York speak.

Taking off the glasses, and then immediately putting them right back on again, the man grinned broadly. "Is _this_ what it's like to actually be able to see?"

"I would imagine so, sir", Morris said diplomatically.

"This is sweet!"

"Um … Sweet?" Morris asked, before deducing that it probably meant something along the lines of "Great".

"Yes, quite", said Morris, shrugging. Dutch people were weird.

The man turned his head this way and that, the cowlick that grew where his hair parted bounced jerkily along with him. "Now, before you go", said Morris, getting that odd uneasy feeling again, "We need to make sure that the lenses are _actually_ correcting your vision properly".

"Okay", the man said good-naturedly.

Morris grabbed a card from under the counter that had large letters at the top which progressively grew smaller as they got further down the paper. He held it in front of the man's face. "See if you can read this".

"S-E-P-I", the man began confidently, "R-T-S … D-N-A", the letters were quite small now, the man was doing well. But now he hesitated. "S-R … … A-T-S?" He had struggled with the last few, but they _were_ all right.

"Very good, sir", Morris said, "I do believe that those _are_ the right lenses".

"Excellent!" The man smiled gormlessly, "Thank you so much". He grabbed Morris' hand to shake it, and Morris had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out at the strength of the man's grip. It was almost inhuman, and Morris was afraid for a moment that the bones in his hand were going to start snapping if the man held on for much longer. But then the man let go and, waving, left the shop, the cheery bell over the door ringing as it closed behind him with a muffled thump. Morris sighed in relief and rubbed his hand, which was a little sore now.

What an awfully strange day this had been. After the general weirdness of today, Morris decided that he could afford to close up early. He turned the sign on the door, and locked it, then proceeded to make sure everything was in order for tomorrow. He exited out the back door as the afternoon sun was beginning to disappear behind the tall buildings of the city.

Yes, it _had_ been a strange day. Little did he know that for the whole of Boston, tomorrow was going to be even stranger.

* * *

Alfred sincerely hoped that he hadn't broken that poor merchant's hand. The man _had_ looked a little pained by his grip, but Alfred couldn't help it. Sometimes he just got excited and forgot that he could crush a man's hand just by shaking it too hard. Alfred was often excited, and so he often forgot his own strength.

That was why he'd had to leave Providence last month, because he'd accidentally let the colonists there see that strange, inhuman quality about him. It hadn't even been that big of a deal, really, just some big cement brick about to fall on some poor kid's head. He couldn't just let it happen. But when the people saw him snatch a brick out of the air that _two_ men could barely lift together, they'd all gone silent. It was what they always did when Alfred messed up. They'd go silent and then do something stupid like try to shoot him full of bullets or burn his house down. And then he always had to move.

So now he was back in Boston, at least for the foreseeable future. He'd had to move far less now than when he'd been small. It was easier to lie and stretch your age when you looked nineteen, because then any age between seventeen and twenty-five was at the very least plausible. When you looked eight, you could be seven, maybe ten if you pushed it, maybe. He'd learned that from experience.

It was far easier living in a big city, he'd also learned before long, because there, people were always coming and going, and the large amount of residents allowed for at least _some_ sense of anonymity. Although being in this _particular_ city made him a bit nervous, he had to admit. He hadn't been here for many years. Not since Davie.

Alfred pushed his new glasses upwards on his nose and shook his head, trying to clear it. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't think about sad things like that anymore. He strode out from under the shadow of the spectacle shop's large awning and out onto the busy streets of the city, blending in with the crowd expertly. It still felt strange to be anonymous, because Alfred felt anything but.

But he had gotten quite good at the whole disappearing thing over the years, at acting like he was normal, not at all strange or unusual. Most people never even batted an eye at him. Except children, that is. Children always seemed to be aware that something was odd about him. Sometimes they would act scared and hide behind the nearest parental unit, but often times they were simply curious. Still, Alfred tried to stay clear of them. A child's gaze often made him feel like there was a spotlight on him, and he didn't like it. Sometimes he could imagine, even almost convince himself that he was normal, but kids always reminded him that he was not. He would always be something unnatural in the eyes of most people, if they ever knew. A Demon.

Demon. Every time he screwed up, the colonists called him that. It was kind of uncanny, actually. For a short time, that's what Alfred thought he was: some strange sort of hell spawn that only spread misery to himself, while leaving all other mortals intact. But Demons, witches, that sort of thing, didn't really exist. They were just tales that people told themselves when something was out of place in the world, an excuse, really. Alfred certainly existed. Unless this was all some sort of strange, really, really long dream. But he honestly tried not to think of things like that. They just made his head hurt.

So instead, as he did whenever his thoughts tended to wander to things he didn't want to think about, which was many, Alfred turned his attention to his people. They were always doing things: building, growing. It made him proud in a strange sort of way, like a father watching a child finish building a model. Exhilaration, that was the only word he could have used to describe it. It brought a smile to his face just to watch these people, _his_ people, invent and create, build and think. This truly was an exciting time to be alive.

"What's with the grin, Alfred?" Asked a voice from behind him, and Alfred turned to see a man with a pointed face staring back at him. He was one of Alfred's … well, maybe "friend" wasn't the right word, Alfred really didn't have any of those, but then again, something _did_ seem right about it. He was hesitant about calling someone that because he didn't like getting attached to people; it hurt too much. But if he was honest, that's what Sam, which was his name, was.

Alfred scratched his cheek, embarrassed. "Oh, um, nothing really", he said. How could he possibly explain to a—somewhat infuriatingly, he had to admit—normal person that he remembered living in this city some eighty-odd years ago when it had been half the size and most of the roads that he'd walked along with his brother had been dirt.

His smile faded quickly. That was yet another thing that he'd promised himself he wouldn't think about. Oh well, there was another promise broken, just like the one that _someone_ had made to him on that dock all of those years ago that he _still_ hadn't made good on.

Sam didn't seem to notice the change. He looked a little preoccupied as he glanced this way and that to make sure that no one was watching them. Leaning in close to Alfred, he whispered "You're coming to the meeting tomorrow night, right?"

Alfred momentarily felt the weight of the cold metal that hung from a chain around his neck. "I was planning on it, dude".

On the last word, Sam broke his conspiratorial expression, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Dude?" He asked. "What is that, Dutch?"

"Um …" Alfred thought about it. He didn't really know where he got most of his vocabulary. It just kind of burbled from his mouth of its own accord, so he just tended to go with it. "Yeah, Dutch. That's it".

It wasn't a very convincing explanation, and Sam obviously wasn't buying it. But he just chuckled and patted Alfred on the back. "You, my good sir, are one of the strangest men that I have ever met".

"Thanks?" Alfred said, not sure if it was a compliment or not.

Sam was just about to respond, with something snarky, no doubt, when someone called his name. He turned, and looking over the shorter man's head, Alfred saw that there was a _girl_ across the street. Her long, brown braid blew behind her in the breeze as she waved to Sam, who promptly began grinning like an idiot as he waved back,

"Whoa", Alfred elbowed him, "Does Samuel Gray, the Eternal Bachelor himself, have a lady friend?"

Said bachelor blushed profusely and shoved Alfred playfully, making a good attempt at a scowl, but which ended up as a lop-sided smile. "Shut up, you!"

Alfred laughed. "And what, pray tell, would be this very _lovely_ lady friend's name?" He asked, enjoyed his friend's embarrassment. "Is it, by any chance, Ms. Hoity-Toity Royalist Dipshit?" He pointed out her nice, Britain-made frock, only half joking.

"Her name is Katerina, for your information, Katerina Carter, and she's just as much for independence as I am".

"I didn't know that that was even possible".

"Very funny. It's her _family_ that are all a bunch of Royalists", Sam made a face, to which Alfred laughed uncontrollably,

Ms. Carter gazed at them from across the street as if wondering what on earth was so funny. Sam turned back to her and shouted that he'd be right over. "Anyway", he said to Alfred, "I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow".

"Yeah!" Alfred called as Sam ran to meet his pretty lady friend. The two of them looked happy together, and Alfred smiled. He liked it when people were happy, it made _him_ happy. The whole affair was just one big happiness extravaganza.

But it was time to leave those two alone. Alfred continued to follow the crowd of people down the busy street, not quite sure where he was going. He didn't care. A small smile crossed his face. It was a beautiful spring afternoon, he had new glasses with which to actually see it, and all was right in his world. Unfortunately for him, it would not remain so for much longer.

In fact, right at that very moment Alfred happened to look up, a thing that he later regretted, and came eye to eye with something that made his heart drop to his knees. That something happened to be a man, one that Alfred hadn't seen in years. Just what was _he_ doing here? The man's unusually large eyebrows crinkled in confusion as he looked around the crowd on the street. He seemed completely lost. The city _had_ changed a lot since he'd been here last, Alfred supposed. There was one thing that hadn't been a lie. He _had_ been able to find him, wherever he was. But the man's eyes were trained firmly downwards, as if looking for a child. He probably _was_ looking for a child. Sucked to be him, Alfred thought, somewhat bitterly. That child didn't exist anymore.

Alfred should've just walked by, should've let the man continue looking for that non-existent memory of a person who had worshipped him, called him Big Brother, all of those years ago, but his legs were inexplicably glued to the street beneath him.

Someone bumped into him from behind with an "oof". "Hey, if you're not going to walk, then get off of the road"

"Sorry", Alfred said, stepping to the side and out of the cluster of people hurrying off for various destinations. The man was still there, just a few feet away from Alfred, but not for long. He had to do something, and soon. He should just walk away, walk _far_ away and not look back. This city caused trouble, it always did. Getting out of town would probably be best for everyone involved. He could go to New York, or Charleston, just anywhere but here.

Of course, to leave the city, he first had to move his feet. But they felt heavy as bri— well, that probably wasn't a good analogy, bricks really weren't that heavy at all. Maybe more like, oh, what was something that he couldn't actually lift? A house, _that_ was too heavy for him. So his feet felt heavy as houses. Was that actually the plural of 'house'? It sounded wrong on his tongue. Was it heese? Or housi?

Okay, focus Alfred. He tended to ramble when he was nervous. But what to do about the man, who was now without a doubt his brother? No, _former_ brother. Arthur Kirkland. That _was_ him. Alfred could see for sure now that he was closer. Arthur was going to move in a second and disappear into the crowd. He should let him go, he should. But he didn't, because just as Arthur was about to walk away, Alfred was shocked to discover that his legs were moving _towards_ him instead. Traitors.

"Hey dude, you look lost", he heard his voice say, and Arthur looked up at him, looked _up_. That was really bizarre, and gave Alfred a peculiar bout of vertigo. He knew he was tall, but in his mind's eye, Arthur had always been taller. Alfred's brain was practically melting out of his ears just thinking that he had somehow managed to grow _taller_ than his distant big brother.

He was going to recognize him. He was going to look up (up!) and see Alfred and immediately know who he was. But to Alfred's amazement, there was no recognition as he turned to him and said "Yes, actually. A little bit".

Alfred simply couldn't bring himself to say the words. As much as he wanted to, his mouth simply couldn't form the syllables to say: "Arthur, It's me, Alfred". So instead he said "Anything I can help you find?"

Arthur's eyes brightened. "Yes!" He said, "I'm actually looking for someone. A small child", Alfred crossed his arms over his chest, becoming slightly peeved now that Arthur _didn't_ know who he was. "He's about yay tall", Arthur continued, heedless to Alfred's discomfort. He gestured the height that Alfred had been so long ago. Had he _really_ been that short? "With blue eyes, blonde hair, and actually quite a distinctive cowli—"

He happened to look upwards then, at the fidgety piece of hair on Alfred's head that would not lay flat regardless of what he did to it, and stopped. "Oh", he said, a little sheepishly. He knew, Alfred _knew_ he knew now. "I've gone and lost track of time again, haven't I?"

Alfred didn't say anything, couldn't physically force any words out of his mouth, so he just nodded.

"How long has it been?"

"Eighty years, give or take", he somehow managed to choke out. He actually knew the exact amount of time: eighty-three years and seven months, but some small, childish part of him didn't want Arthur to know that he'd been counting.

"Really?" Arthur asked, as if hoping that Alfred was pulling his leg. When he saw that he wasn't, he sighed deeply.

"Well, shit".

* * *

Needless to say, their reunion didn't go quite as either of them had planned. But even if it doesn't need to be said, I'm going to talk about it anyway. We all, of course, know how Arthur imagined it, having been in his head several times before. He had pictured a small child smiling up at him with that gormless admiration of his, but was instead confronted by a very tall young man, who seemed to have all of the awkwardness but only half of the charisma that that child had had.

Alfred, for his part, had been expecting Arthur to recognize him right away, at the very least, maybe with a nice "Oh, hullo Alfred. Sorry I was gone so long. That last war had just been a bloody _battlefield_ ". But he instead reunited with a rather short stranger who also happened to have a rather short temper.

So when, after a few minutes of terribly awkward stammering, one of them—they later wouldn't remember who—suggested that they move their conversation to the nearby tavern, they were both grateful. It would be far easier to ignore each other when things got inevitably awkward in a crowded bar.

And, in a cruel and ironic twist, a certain tavern happened to be right across the street. Arthur and Alfred both walked across that street to the Eagle and Crown with trepidation, each wondering just what the other was thinking. That in itself creates a rather interesting paradox, but thinking about how they were thinking about what the other was thinking in an endless cycle is just making my head hurt, so I should really just bloody well get on with it, shouldn't I?

The feeling of déjà vu passed over both of them like a wave as they stepped through the door of the Eagle and Crown. It looked exactly the same as it had that one evening, when they had both come in shaken from the fire and chilled to the bone, so long ago. Candle flames danced on their wax pedestals in greeting, causing a cheery glow to emanate from the bar at the back of the room. Not one single thing had changed. It was like stepping back in time for Arthur, who half-expected to look down and see a little boy clinging to his coat.

The déjà vu, though very much present, wasn't quite as dramatic for Alfred, who had been a _lot_ shorter the last time he had been here. His extra height combined with the old familiar setting was severely off-putting, and Alfred felt a little queasy.

A bar-maid, a different one obviously, the old one must have been long dead by now, looked up from the bar and smiled. "Hello there, gentlemen", she said as the two of them approached. "What can I get'cha?"

"Whiskey, _please_ ", Arthur said, maybe a little desperately, which Alfred didn't fail to notice. They sat down on two stools at the bar, still not quite able to look at each other.

The bar-maid turned to Alfred. "Oh. No, I'm okay", he said. Alfred didn't drink. There was no particular reason, he'd just never really felt the need for it.

"So", Arthur began, but only after the bar-maid had placed a shot of whiskey in front of him and he'd downed it with a tip of his head. "It's been a … long time".

"Yeah", said Alfred, who looked down at the truly fascinating pattern of the wooden counter's grain. "Eighty years".

"Has it really been _that_ long?" Arthur asked, running a hand through the same unkempt hair that hadn't changed in all of these years. Actually, it seemed to Alfred that everything about him was _exactly_ the same as it had when he'd left Alfred on the dock eighty years ago. And yet, there was something _essential_ that _was_ different. When Alfred had been younger, his brother could do no wrong. He had been invincible, a _hero_ , but now Alfred could see that he was just a man. An incredibly old, unfathomable, immortal man, but a man none the less. Maybe it wasn't so much that _he_ had changed as that _Alfred_ had changed.

"It seems like just yesterday you were this small", Arthur continued, using a hand to gesture, "And such a … a …"

"Child?" Alfred managed to choke out through constricted vocal cords. His lungs seemed to be full of black, liquideous confusion. He was drowning in it. It was as if the world had tilted one degree to the side. Not so much as to cause panic, but just enough that something was fundamentally wrong with this whole picture.

The bar-maid had since placed another shot of whiskey in front of Arthur, which he drank just as quickly as the first. "And look at you now! So grown up", he said, "If I'd known you'd grow _this_ quickly, I'd have come back sooner".

"Why?" The word was out of Alfred's mouth like a shotgun blast; he couldn't have stopped it if he'd tried. He hadn't been going to ask, but the word had been sitting on his tongue since he'd seen Arthur out on the street. Alfred looked up for the first time since coming into the tavern, stared right into Arthur's eyes.

Arthur blinked. "Beg pardon?" He asked, seeming to not understand the question.

"Why _didn't_ you come back?" Alfred elaborated, his stomach busy twisting itself into knots. Now that the question was out, he wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer.

"I … " Arthur stammered, "I meant to come back. I really did, but then things" (Read: wars) "Happened and I just kind of … got caught up in it all".

"But you could've written or something", Alfred said, becoming agitated now.

"I didn't know where you were", Arthur was very quickly turning red, although if that was from the conversation or the whiskey was anyone's guess. "You could have been anywhere! In the bloody Artic for all _I_ knew!" He was making excuses, clearly nervous, with no idea what to say to this man who he'd only known briefly as a child.

Alfred gritted his teeth, angry. He opened his mouth to say something when Arthur interrupted, clearly wanting to change the subject. "Anyway, look, there's a reason I'm in the colonies".

Oh! Of course he had to have a reason. He wouldn't come all of the way across the sea just to see his brother. But Alfred wanted to fight just as much as Arthur did, which was not at all, so he expelled the breath he realized he'd been holding and simply said "Yeah?"

"It's about this silly talk of independence that's been going around the city. Do you know what that's about?"

"Maybe it's because they're suddenly being intruded upon by all of your soldiers and new laws after being left alone for so many years", Alfred muttered and cast a dark look over in Arthur's direction, who seemed oblivious to the gesture.

"What, you mean with the taxes? They know that we _had_ to implement those, don't they?" Arthur asked as he drank another shot, "We were in debt from the war, and we _did_ protect your sorry hides from becoming property of ruddy _France_ , didn't we?"

Alfred shook his head. He couldn't believe that Arthur couldn't see the big issue at hand. It wasn't _really_ about the taxes at all. "That's not how we see it", he said quietly. "We see it as getting _your_ debts handed to us without any say in the matter". He clenched his hands into fists, mostly because if he clutched the edge of the bar any harder the wood would have snapped.

"Is this that idiotic 'No Taxation without Representation' nonsense?" Arthur rolled his eyes.

"It's not nonsense", said Alfred, "As British citizens, we _should_ have representation in parliament, should we not? Is that too much to ask?"

"Yes, actually. It is", Arthur growled through his teeth. "If I gave _you_ representation, then I'd have to do the same with _all_ of my colonies, wouldn't I? And that would just cause a right mess".

Standing up, Alfred towered over Arthur, yet he still somehow felt very small indeed. This man he was standing before was a titan, an _empire_ , and he was just a collection of a few colonies that were _always_ fighting with each other. "But I was your first colony, your little brother, wasn't I? Or does that mean nothing to you?"

"Of course it does", said Arthur, "But—"

"No", Alfred interrupted. "Look". He reached under his shirt, and pulled out the cold metal medallion that hung from a chain around his neck. "You see this?" He asked, holding it in front of Arthur's disbelieving eyes. "You know what this is?"

Arthur's mouth opened, but no sound came out. "Yes", he finally managed to get out, "But that's … you _can't_ be a—"

"Son of Liberty? (4)" Alfred snarled. "Yeah, I am".

Arthur stood up too, green eyes flashing dangerously. "I demand you take that off right now. You don't know what you're playing at".

Alfred paused, then slowly, but deliberately, he said "No". He would not back down. "You know, I was on the fence about this whole independence thing. I kept thinking to myself: should I really be doing this? I owe so much to Britain. But I've made my decision now".

"Oh?" Arthur asked. He leaned close, less than an inch away from Alfred's face. "And just what did you decide?"

Alfred stared him right into his eyes. "That I want to become a country. I'm _going_ to become a country. And there's nothing that you can do about it". He turned on his heels, and fists clenched, walked out of the Eagle and Crown without another word.

The bar had gone silent, and Arthur realized that the whole room was staring at him. He sat down, blushing. "Well, that could have gone better", he sighed, and turned to the bar-maid, who had frozen in the middle of polishing a glass.

"I'll pay my tab now, thank you".

* * *

 **Historical Notes** :

(1) Partially due to all of the trouble with British-imposed taxes around this time, but also partially because the more independent-inclined colonists were trying to separate themselves from the "Mother Country", they had begun to make homespun cloth and other such homemade things and refused to buy them from Britain.

(2) The Sons of Liberty were at first a fairly laid-back group opposing the Stamp Act, which was a British tax on paper, but even when that law was repealed and the group officially disbanded, several other groups around the colonies, also calling themselves the Sons of Liberty, sprung up, and some of these groups were a lot more "radical" with their protesting than others.

(3) New York was originally a Dutch colony, but was conquered by the British in 1664, joining the original thirteen colonies.

(4) A group of the SoL in Boston wore medallions to protests and the like, which were actually made by Paul Revere.

* * *

 _It was only going to be so long until a Hamilton song made song of the week, giving the content of this story and all, so my song of the week is "You'll be Back", mostly just because I crack myself up thinking of a (really crazy) Arthur singing it to Alfred. Hahahahaha!_


	8. The Massacre

_What? This is out a day early?! What kind of Alternate Universe shenanigan is this? Actually, I wanted to give myself the day off tomorrow, because on Friday I'm leaving for a trip with my choir to New York city to sing at Carnegie Hall. I'm super excited! There's going to be 200 (?) people from high schools all over the country singing, so maybe I'll see some of you guys there!_

 _But I digress. Because I'm going to be without access to any sort of device with a keyboard until next Wednesday, unless some miracle occurs and I'm able to crank out a chapter in a night, I will probably not update next week. I'm not dead, but I'll probably feel like it. Who knows, though. Maybe I'll write like five chapters in my notebook (It's part of my writing process. Ask me about it! I dare you!)._

 _So, without further ado, here's the chapter. See you all in two weeks!_

* * *

Chapter Seven

The Massacre

Rope-making was hard work. You had to have hard, calloused hands in order to grip the leather or cotton that had to be braided into thick, pliable cords, and you had to have the unique ability to focus all of your attention on a short bit of cloth for an absorbent amount of time. Luckily for him, Samuel Gray possessed all of these qualities in spades. He was very good at his job.

One might have thought that rope-braiding was an exceedingly unusual profession to suddenly find one's self employed as, but here in Boston, it was a practical cash cow. Thousands upon thousands of ships pulled into Boston Harbor every year, and every one of them needed to be stocked with coils and coils of yes, you guessed it: rope. In fact, so necessary was that essential material that the men down at the ropewalk were never for want of another job.

Sam's uncle owned the ropeworks, and was mostly responsible for Sam's job there. He first suggested his employment almost eight years ago now, when he'd first seen a twelve-year-old Sam absently twisting pieces of grass together when he was bored at a family function. It was hard work, and long hours, but for the wages that Sam was getting, it was worth it all. Soon maybe, he'd finally have enough money stored away to tie the knot (pun unintended) and marry Katerina.

Her family, though very wealthy in its own right, wouldn't give them a cent. They didn't quite approve of Sam, he was a poor rope-braider after all, and would not recognize their marriage. Her father was especially hard on him. "I don't understand why he hates you so fervently", Katerina apologized to him later after he'd been harshly turned down when he'd asked him for Katerina's hand. But Katerina was naïve; Sam knew exactly why he hated him.

William Carter was a pompous, staunch Royalist with his head so far up his own ass that it came all of the way back up his throat. He detested Sam solely on the principle that he was a poor man who wasn't satisfied with his lot in life. In Sam's opinion, if he had to poor, he'd much rather do so as a free man than a slave to the crown, but Mr. Carter certainly didn't see it that way. _He_ saw it as a man getting ideas above his station, and that he should have nothing to do with his daughter.

Katerina, on the other hand, had other ideas. She certainly was a strange one, and like Sam, would not sit there and play the cards that life had handed her. Sam had no idea where she had gotten her free spirit. Her family was old money, still clinging to the old ways of Europe, but not her. At ten she had stolen a horse and ran away to Canada to live with her uncle, who was a trapper up north. She had even gotten away with it for almost a year and a half before her father insisted that she come home.

Most men wouldn't want a girl like Katerina. They would think that she was too opinionated, and talked too much. Women should be seen and not heard, after all, but Sam liked that about her. They were alike in that way; they both would not let anyone keep them down. Best of all, there was never a dull moment in her company. She was always pulling him into one adventure or another, whether it be long camping trips in the woods or hunting with guns stolen from her father. She was actually a really good shot, now that he thought about it.

But by one way or another, one day Sam had woken up with Katerina laying next to him and realized that he was _in love_ with this girl, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, and best of all, that she felt the same way. It really was one of life's little miracles.

He didn't really understand why she had fallen for _him_ of all people. Sam was dirt poor, and rough around the edges. Worst of all, he liked to fight. He didn't know _why_ he enjoyed it, exactly. Maybe it made him feel superior to the guy he'd just kicked into the dirt for once in his life. Maybe it was the one way he could get back at the world for screwing him so royally. But deep down, he knew that there was just something wrong with him, simple as that, that he for one reason or another derived some sick sort of pleasure from the sound people's bones made when they cracked under his boot.

Often he'd come to work with bruises and scrapes, and his uncle John would just shake his head. "One of these days", he'd intoned once when Sam's eyes were so puffy that he couldn't see the rope in front of him, and couldn't work. "One of these days, you're going to meet someone who _won't_ fight you fairly. Then he's going to kill you".

Sam laughed at that. He'd heard about people getting killed in brawls before, but something like that could never happen to him. Those poor saps had been idiots, taken on a challenge that they couldn't handle, and had paid the ultimate price for it. There was no challenge too big for Sam, however. Anyone who messed with him knew exactly what they were getting themselves into: a beating they wouldn't forget anytime soon.

Yes, he was the king, and eventually it got to the point where no one would fight him at all. So understandably, Sam was itching for a fight that night on the ropewalk when the regulars (1) came. Apparently, being a soldier wasn't all it was cracked up to be; the army didn't pay you crap, and sitting around looking intimidating to the Bostonians wasn't the most interesting job, and so, broke and bored, a bunch of regulars had trundled down to the ropewalk to inquire about work.

As soon as they heard through the grapevine just why the soldiers were disturbing their late night's work, the rope-braiders had begun to grumble. How could these soldiers, whose numbers were so great that they were practically _occupying_ Boston, take their jobs in addition to everything else? (2) Uncle John had hesitated at their request, knowing full well that if he hired them, his already somewhat skilled labor force were viable to walk out.

While he and their leader, Lieutenant Something or Other, the rest of the regulars stood huddled on the walk, slowly being surrounded by the rope-braiders, who circled them like lions waiting for the perfect moment to make a kill. "Hey", one of them, an old codger with a fluffy covering of white on his chin, whispered to Sam, "Look at those prissy knits over there, think they're so important". Sam nodded, cracking his knuckles. "You're with the Sons, right?"

Sam turned to him. "You want me to rough 'em up a bit? Show 'em who's boss?"

The Rope-Braider shrugged. "I'm not saying anything. But _they_ might say otherwise".

Turning, Sam realized that _all_ of the rope-braiders were staring at him. He _was_ the man of action, the guy who got things done, after all. They looked to him to take care of this situation, to make it go away with excessive force if necessary. Sam nodded to the braiders, shoved his hands into his pockets and approached the regulars.

"What's going on, Mates?" He asked them. The five of them turned to him, hackles raised. They were nervous, didn't like being surrounded by the rough rope-braiders. But they let down their guards once they saw his small stature. Sam was certainly not the most intimidating person around. He was small and thin, but under his clothes were cords of pure muscle from doing hard labor most of his life. While he may have been small, he was not weak. In fact, his small stature gave him one distinct advantage: he could take his enemies by surprise.

"None of your business. _Mate_ ", said one of them, a rather tall man with a nose that made it appear as if he constantly smelled something terrible. The regulars chuckled behind him.

Sam smiled, chuckled with them even. The rope-braiders stepped back, uneasy. When Sam smiled like that, whoever he was grinning at was in serious, deep shit. "Oh, I think it is", he said, a hint of menace just detectable in his voice. "You see, this is _our_ ropewalk, and what we say goes".

"And just what _do_ you say, then?" Asked the soldier, stepping in front of the others.

"Kilroy..." One of them warned, but the soldier, Kilroy, waved him off. His smirk mirrored Sam's own, except that it seemed surprisingly empty, like there was no real feeling behind it. The man certainly was confident, Sam would give him that.

"We say that you need to leave", the rope-braiders mumbled in agreement behind him. Some of them cracked their knuckles or otherwise tried to be intimidating. It seemed to be working. Many of the prissy soldiers in their fancy uniforms certainly looked nervous.

But not Kilroy, who instead took a step towards Sam. "And what if we refuse?" He asked quietly, tilting his head as if it were a genuine question.

Sam also took a step forward. He was not bluffing, and he would not be cowed from some pussy from across the pond. "If you refuse?" Sam paused, letting the question hang in the air. "Then I'll be forced to kick your asses all of the way back to Britain so you can cry to your mummies like the bastards you are".

The swipe came out of nowhere, but Sam was prepared for it. He ducked out of the way as Kilroy punched the air that just a second ago had been occupied by Sam's head. "Oh, did I say something wrong?" He asked from behind Kilroy, who turned to face him. "What was it? _Bastard?_ " The look in Kilroy's eyes confirmed Sam's suspicions "Was mummy a whore?"

He dodged again as Kilroy's fist whooshed through the air an inch from his nose. The man was surprisingly fast for his size. Sam replied with a swing of his own. He grunted with satisfaction as his fist connected with Kilroy's jaw. It wasn't broken, Sam hadn't hit him hard enough for that, just left a promise of the smack down that was to come, but he reeled back in pain none the less.

Unfortunately for Sam, the smack down was halted as Kilroy lunged again. Sam ducked once more, but immediately regretted it. The soldier had been prepared for that, and wrapped his hands around Sam's neck. He squeezed, not hard enough to kill him, but with pressure enough to let him know who was in charge. Sam didn't struggle, just hung limply from his grasp. It would hurt less this way, Sam knew from experience.

"Say that again", Kilroy challenged, murder in his eyes. Sam hung there, chuckled, at least as much as he could with his throat constricted.

The challenge would not go unanswered. Sam had never backed down before, so just why should he start now? "Bastard", he managed, with difficulty, to choke out.

If looks could kill, Sam would be dead. The grip around his neck tightened, and spots began to dance across his vision. The world felt distant, and he vaguely realized that the regulars were trying to pull Kilroy off of him, but Sam knew that that Bastard wouldn't let go until he was dead.

"What's going on here?" Asked a voice, posh, and Kilroy's grip slackened on his neck. "Kilroy, get your hands off of that boy". He hesitated, staring at Sam. Sam stared back, daring him to disobey. But disappointingly, he let go, and walked back over to rejoin the regulars, all of whom were hanging their heads. Sam collapsed to the ground behind them, coughing and gasping, his throat raspy.

While he was recovering, the Lieutenant must have given some order, for the regulars began to leave down the ropewalk, away from the rope-braiders, none of whom helped Sam up.

Before he vanished into the dark, Kilroy stopped and stared at Sam one last time, who was busy picking himself up off of the ground with what was left of his dignity. "This isn't over", he said, before someone called to him, and he walked away, disappearing into the mist...

* * *

Private Kilroy was in deep shit. Again. His commanding officer, Lieutenant This or That—he had a truly forgettable name—was currently giving him the talking to of a lifetime. He paced back and forth across the small office of the storehouse, which the soldiers were using as makeshift barracks, while Kilroy sat in a hard wooden chair and at least _tried_ to look cowed while the Lieutenant shouted his lungs out.

"I cannot believe", the man sputtered, "The amount of insubordination which you have displayed while under my command". The Lieutenant was a short man with a red face, made even redder now with anger, so much so that he looked like a kettle about to spew over. Kilroy half expected steam to come pouring out of his ears any second now. "Stealing, gambling, and now this? I have a right mind to send you packing for England right now, young man".

He wouldn't do that, Kilroy knew. He was too valuable an asset to the army, but he played along, giving the man exactly what he wanted. He sat forward in his chair as he began to loudly protest. "Oh please! All I did was rough the brat up a bit. Plus, it's not my fault. He started it".

"You had your hands wrapped around the boy's neck. He was choking", the Lieutenant retorted, spit flying from his wide mouth. "He would have died if I hadn't come out when I did".

"That's not—" Kilroy began.

"I'll not hear another word about it", said the Lieutenant. "You're", he paused, to mad to speak. "You're under probation. Pull one more stunt like that and I'll see to it that you never hold a gun again". Kilroy hung his head. He didn't actually feel any remorse for what he had done, but it was what was called "Playing the Game". "Now back to the barracks".

Kilroy stood up and, after saluting like a good soldier, left the room without another word. He was exceeding lucky, he knew, that the Lieutenant was such a pushover, or it could have been much worse. Any other officer would have sent him home long before now with all of the crap he had done, although he wouldn't necessarily call Britain home. And he couldn't go back there. The only things waiting back in that crowded place were frigid nights and crippling poverty.

It was what had driven his mother to do the things she did. She'd had many men that he could recall, until it had all ended. Until the man that had helped in some small part to create him found out that Kilroy existed. He slit her throat in a dark, smoky alley, and would have killed him too, if he had not known the streets well enough to disappear among the rabble that lived like rats in the maze that was London.

The other soldiers watched him as he crossed the warehouse, probably wondering why he wasn't already on a boat back to the Mother Country. They didn't like him, called him things behind his back, unpleasant things. There was a spotlight on his back as he began the long journey across the miles-long storehouse. "What are you looking at?" He snarled, uncomfortable with the attention. They quickly went back to playing cards and polishing their guns.

He made it to his quarters, really just a moth-eaten mat in the corner of the room, without much trouble. Flopping down on it, Kilroy faced the wall and pretended to go to sleep, if only to prevent the ceaseless staring of the soldiers on his back. Eventually, the soldiers got bored of arguing about who should poke him with a stick, just to see if he would bite off the end with his teeth, and talking at a barely audible level to try and otherwise provoke him, and went back to doing whatever it was that they usually did.

But Kilroy didn't pay them any attention, because he was too busy musing about the feeling of Gray's throat between his fingers. He had wanted to kill him, still _did_ , as a matter of fact. The little snot had had the gall to insult him, a soldier of the crown. Had these Americans no respect? Even when he'd had the boy's life in his hands, he hadn't backed down, hadn't begged or whined for his life like any sane person would've done. No, Gray had smiled, actually _smiled_ in the face of death. Gray was no sane man.

Then again, neither was Kilroy. The only reason he was still here at all and not thugging it out in London as he had done before someone suggested he sign up for the army was because he was, frankly, a _damned_ good soldier. It was the only thing besides bashing people's skulls in that he'd ever found to be any good at. Some people might say that he was a malicious character, _evil_ even, that he enjoyed killing, but none of that was true in the least. Kilroy didn't enjoy anything at all. Nor did he feel guilt for the things he'd done, or pity for the people he'd done them to. The only true emotion he'd ever felt was anger.

He'd first realized that he was not right a very long time ago, in that alleyway in London. The man whose smile he shared stood over the corpse of his mother, her blood running through the cracks on the cobblestone, running through the heart of the city. The city demanded blood. It always did.

But despite it all, despite the cold and the rain and the man who approached him slowly, Kilroy hadn't felt sad, not in the least. He barely looked twice at the body on the ground, just stared up into the man's eyes, and it was like staring into a mirror. They were the same eyes. And he felt angry, so _angry_ at this man who had taken his one source of protection away from him. That was when he knew that they were the same, the man and him. They were both broken. He had run then, but not out of fear, simply out of a need to keep breathing. He had never seen the man again.

It was why he hated that word, the one that had escaped Gray's mouth no less than three times on the ropewalk. It made him furious to think that that monster in the alley didn't take responsibility for what he had created. Hadn't ever tried to claim the son that he had made. That horrible, disgusting word clung to him like a spider's web, entangling him in its sticky grip. Bastard.

He would make Gray pay for his part in bringing back those memories. He would pay in blood. Kilroy would make it slow, painful, and then he would relish the moment that the light would leave his eyes. Then he would know just how much suffered. It would be glorious.

For the first time in a good long while, Kilroy smiled. He couldn't wait for the two of them to meet again.

* * *

Thinking back on it now, Alfred sincerely regretted the things he'd said to Arthur in the Eagle and Crown. He'd had a good long twenty-four hours to muse over just how stupid his declaration that he was "Going to become a country" had been. That one idiotic phrase had shoved an even bigger schism between them then there had been before. If there had been a chance, even a minuscule one, to patch things up, that opportunity was certainly gone now.

Not only that, but there was also the thought of the greater repercussions associated with his words that was bouncing around in Alfred's mind. It was bigger than a feud between brothers, the words they spoke to each other could affect whole nations, the _world_ even. And just what would Arthur do with the knowledge that Alfred was actively plotting against him? With any luck, the man had at least a tiny shred of honor, and wouldn't use it to find the Sons, but Alfred's rashness could very easily elevate the burgeoning conflict between the Patriots and Loyalists to a level that in colonies in their disorganized state simply couldn't handle. He could have just destroyed himself.

Which was why it was absolutely essential for him to be at the Sons' meeting tonight. They were the one thing that stood between the colonies and complete British domination. They didn't know who Alfred was really, that he was the Anthropomorphic Personification of their hopes and dreams realized. It would have given them hope, he supposed, but the knowledge could also make them overconfident. Just because he existed didn't mean that the battle was already won. At least, that's what he told himself anyway.

The streets of Boston were quiet now. It was late, the sun had long since set behind the brick buildings of the city. Most respectable people would be at home, asleep. But not Alfred. And not the other Sons either, who were inevitably sneaking through other shadowed streets to their meeting place just the same as Alfred was now. He tried to look casual, like he was simply out for an evening stroll, but he wasn't doing a very good job at it. He always found it difficult to be inconspicuous. It only would have appeared suspicious, however, if there was actually anyone to _be_ suspicious of him.

Still though, he kept an eye peeled for anyone that might be coming down the cobblestone street. It was for this exact reason that Alfred jumped almost a foot in the air when a sudden shout from around the corner broke the silence around him. He couldn't discern what had been said, or just who was saying it, but whatever it was, it couldn't be good. So Alfred, being either very bold, or very, very stupid, peeked around the corner of a tall brick building to see just what was going on.

And there, in one of the smaller squares of the big city, he saw the crowd. On one side were a group of rag-tag colonists, all equally pissed off, looking over to the regulars on the other side, who were dressed with their pretty red coats and each holding a deadly-looking gun. The colonists grumbled, more of a mob than anything else, and someone was standing in front of them, facing the regulars. A pebble was clutched in his hand, which he kept throwing and catching absently as he spoke.

Alfred approached the group, his curiosity getting the best of him once again. It was then he realized that the figure was none other than Samuel Gray. What on earth was he doing? He talked to the soldiers with the kind of ease that seemed to come so naturally to him. He was charming, charismatic, and Alfred sometimes found himself jealous of those qualities. But the thing about Sam was that his mouth often got him into more trouble than it was worth.

"What's wrong, Kilroy?" He asked one of the soldiers in the huddle. "Don't actually know how to shoot that fancy gun of yours?" Alfred groaned. This was exactly what he was talking about. He was taunting them. Actually _taunting_ them. Alfred knew that Sam could be rash, but this was kind of ridiculous,

"Why you", one of the regulars, who must have been Kilroy, snarled. He made to raise his gun, until another soldier held a hand in front of him. Kilroy put down the gun, but his teeth were still bared like an animal in Sam's direction. This was a man you did not want to cross. What was Sam thinking?

"Oh? You're going to listen to him? Like a good little lapdog?" Sam made a pathetic little whining sound, then laughed. The colonists chuckled behind him. Alfred, who had been slowly walking towards the scene the whole time, was now close enough to put a hand on Sam's shoulder. He turned when he did. "Oh, hey Alfred. Come to join the party?"

"What are you doing?" Alfred hissed at him, with any luck quietly enough so that the soldiers couldn't hear him. "Do you _have_ a death wish?"

Sam laughed. "Relax Al. They're too chicken to shoot". Most of the regulars were scowling at Sam by now, only held in check by their commanding officer. The rabble behind the two of them on both sides were growing restless, itching for a fight.

"Now listen chums", Sam shouted, a little hoarsely, Alfred noted, and regained the crowd's attention. "We", he gestured grandly to the crowd behind him, "Are getting rather sick of this British Occupation horseshit". The soldiers muttered darkly, which Sam didn't fail to notice. "And don't try to tell me that you're here for our protection, because we _all_ know that's not true. Anyway", he continued, "We want you out", the regulars were becoming uneasy, unsure of what the colonists were about to do.

"So either you all make preparations to leave right now, or we begin pelting you with rocks until you do", Sam said, smiling as if he was settling an argument between children.

"That's not how it works, dipshit", Kilroy growled, "We've got orders. We can't just leave".

Sam merely shrugged. "Alright then. Rocks it is", he wound back his arm, the one holding the rock, about ready to throw, but Alfred grabbed it.

"Dude stop. You really don't want to make them mad", he said, "This isn't a street brawl. We've got a few rocks, and what have _they_ got? _Guns_. They could honestly kill us".

"No, _you_ stop", Sam said, readying his hand again. "I know what I'm doing. They won't shoot us. They're just a bunch of soft, yellow-bellied bastar—"

 ** _BANG!_**

The stone fell from Sam's hand and clattered to the cobblestones, echoing in the sudden quiet of the square as its inertia was spent. Sam, to his credit, managed to stay on his feet for a second, hovering in place more than anything, as blood began to drip down his face from the new, inch-wide bullet hole in his forehead. But then he fell backwards onto the ground, stiff as a board. A pool of red quickly began to spread over the stones of the square, centering on the back of his head. Kilroy stared at his gun as if it had gone off by itself. Everyone else stared at Kilroy.

For a moment, all was silent. No one dared to speak. But suddenly, someone, one of the colonists probably, yelled at the soldiers, and all hell broke loose. "What are you doing? Don't shoot!" The lieutenant shouted, but his words were drowned out in the cacophony of gun-shots and the screams of dying men.

The colonists ran towards the soldiers. The soldiers ran towards the colonists. Before long, it was only possible to tell who was who because of the regulars bright red coats, and even with them distinguishing was made difficult by the sheer amount of steam and dust kicked up from the ground and emanating from the soldier's guns.

Alfred stood in the center of it all, numb. A figure ran past him, seemingly away from the scene, but another bang resounded through the square and he went down, a puff of dust and blood rising from his jacket as the bullet pierced his flesh. He grabbed onto Alfred's arm, and whispered something that seemed to resemble the word "Help", but then he was gone, his eyes gone cloudy, and there was nothing that Alfred could do.

He couldn't move, couldn't physically pick his legs up and run. So he just stood there and did nothing as the air grew hot and stained with red. Somewhere, a gun fired, and Alfred grunted as a small piece of metal gouged out a bit of his shoulder. Hot liquid ran down his arm, but he barely noticed, for he was too busy looking into the dead eyes of his friend, still vaguely twinkling to match the phantom smile plastered onto his face.

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) Regulars was another word for Red Coats, or the British soldiers.

(2) Because of the Quartering act that Parliament passed to exert their dominance on the colonies, the residents of Boston were technically required by law to allow soldiers to stay in their homes if they requested. Of course, the colonists didn't always _obey_ those rules, so the massive amount of soldiers that were stationed in Boston around this time often found themselves staying in storehouses and the like.

* * *

 _Fun fact: Samuel Gray and Private Matthew Kilroy were actual people. I was looking up the Boston Massacre and found this cool story about how the two of them had fought on the ropewalk and then Kilroy later ended up killing Gray in the massacre. I thought it was cool, so I had to include it. Hope you liked it! See you soon!_


	9. The Sons have a Party (With Tea!)

_Hello again! It's been a while! Two weeks now. To tell the truth, I was itching to write in New York, but I simply didn't have the time :,(. But I'm back on track now. This is the last chapter before the war starts, and I'm pretty stoked! This middle section has kind of dragged for me, but it was necessary build-up. The war simply wouldn't be as satisfying without having to get the background first, right?_

 _Anyway, please enjoy._

* * *

Chapter Eight

The Sons have a Party (With Tea!)

December 16th, 1773

The feather sat on a special shelf in Alfred's flat, placed on its spot with almost reverential care. It didn't look quite as pristine now as it had in times gone by, but you had to keep in mind that this eagle feather had fallen off of that great, predatory creature some ninety years ago, now, and feathers simply weren't made to last that long. It was frankly a surprise that it hadn't disintegrated into dust by now.

But Alfred certainly tried his best. There were a few imperfections: a few bits of plumage here or there that were twisted at odd angles or completely gone from one of the many speedy getaways that Alfred had had to undertake over the years, and that one black spot from the fire. That had been a terribly long time ago, now, he realized. So long, in fact, that Alfred could barely remember what the feather had looked like before the raging flames had burned that small section near the base away.

Anyone else would have thrown it away by now. They would have left it on that shelf and forgotten about it, only to come back years later for spring cleaning, say "I don't remember this", and promptly toss it in the trash. But not Alfred. It meant the world for him, his one connection to that distant past that he could never go back to.

It was a reminder of a simpler time, one when the skies were always blue and the grass cool and soft to the touch under his bare feet. A time before hiding, suspicion, massacres. A time before Arthur. Not that Alfred regretted any of it, Arthur had given him everything, but if he'd known that sitting down in that forest and picking a name for himself would have led to so much pain, he didn't know if he would have gone through with it.

But most of all, it reminded him of his sister. At least, what he could remember of her. It was terrifying for Alfred, because the time before he met Arthur seemed like some kind of dream. He could hardly remember the times he'd spent laughing and playing with his big sister. He couldn't even remember what she looked like. She had had black hair, brown eyes, and dark, earth-baked skin, creamy like chocolate, he remembered that much, but he just couldn't fit the pieces together in his mind. He'd sit for hours staring at the feather and racking his brain for a picture, just one picture of her. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. It was almost as if she was just a character he'd conjured up in his mind, as if he hadn't even existed before Arthur had found him.

That wasn't true, though, couldn't be, because there, sitting right on his shelf, was physical evidence that his sister had, at some point, walked on this earth. She had pulled that feather out of her hair and given it to him as she'd disappeared. He could hear her sometimes. It sounded crazy, he knew that, but some nights, when he was almost asleep, he could swear that he could hear a half-forgotten melody whispered into his ear. But try as he might, the next morning he could never remember what it had been.

Of course, he didn't think that it was actually _her_ , his sister was long gone. Still, he longed for those moments that he _knew_ he had had with her, but now couldn't for the life of him remember. Secretly, he wanted to go back to those times when he had been a child and hadn't had to worry or care about anything.

Alfred was no longer a child. He had to tell himself that when he needed to emerge from those strange funks that he often found himself in. He didn't need to be held or cared for anymore. But still, the feather sat on his shelf, resting silently and gazing down at him with parental concern. No matter how hard he tried, Alfred simply couldn't get rid of it.

Tonight, at last, it would be put to good use. Alfred sat in his bedroom with a needle and thread, a strip of leather in one hand, the feather in the other. Biting his tongue for concentration, he tried to focus on getting the needle through the tough leather, but Alfred would freely admit that he had never been very good at sewing. Whenever he tried, the needles always had a strange habit of breaking. He tried his best, though, as he held the end of the feather against the leather and attempted to crudely bind the two together.

"Damn it!" He muttered as he brought the needle through with some difficulty—leather is thick!—and accidentally stabbed his finger. A drop of blood began to clot at the offending digit, and Alfred stuck it in his mouth, vaguely sucking on it as a method of pain relief. It didn't work very well, and now the irony taste of blood filled his mouth. He shook his hand, and slowly, the pain began to subside. Turning back to the feather, he resumed the task at hand.

Although he didn't want to admit it, Alfred was nervous about tonight. It had originally been Revere's idea (1). Even though the Sons of Liberty had no official leader—it didn't seem quite right to have one when their purpose was to actively _rebel_ against the current leadership—but he was certainly an influential party in the group, so the rest of the Sons, especially those in Boston, tended to listen to his ideas. Even this one, though the rashness of the plan worried Alfred.

It had all begun because of this series of intolerable acts which the King had been imposing on the colonies over the last few years (2), which had culminated into the worst one of all: the Tea Act. The act ruled that the only tea the colonists could purchase was tea from England, which, while cheaper, would be taxed heavily, and frankly, kind of tasted like shite. Everyone agreed.

And it wasn't even about the tea, really. It was the _principle_ of the thing. Those Parliamentary Pigs thought that they could just boss around a million people that were located all of the way across the flipping ocean! They came to mess with them, to impose all of these acts and taxes, and frankly, Alfred was getting really sick of their crap. Sometimes, he felt so bottled up that he just wanted to scream.

He didn't do that, of course. That would have caused a scene. Part of that, this feeling of being trapped in a cage, might have come from the city itself. The amount of soldiers quartered in Boston had only grown since the massacre in response to the colonists' unrest. The streets had once been full of all kinds of people going about their daily business, but now their only occupants were grim-faced soldiers running drills in order to intimidate the colonists into submission. Many people were afraid to go out on the streets, because most of the soldiers were little better than thugs, and a man was liable to lose any material wealth he had on his person if he ran into one.

Alfred felt helpless, trapped, and time was very quickly running out for him. He'd been in Boston for far too long already. Sooner or later, someone was going to realize that he looked exactly the same as he had four years ago. But he couldn't leave yet, not while his people were slowly but surely becoming slaves to the crown. It was all happening in Boston, and it all came down to tonight.

There. That would be good enough. Alfred tied off the thread as best as he could. It wasn't pretty, but it would have to do. He pulled on the feather. It stuck. Good. Hopefully it wouldn't fly off in the inevitable shit that was very quickly about to go down. He held the strip—plus new feather extension—up to the light. It was late, with only a few small candles to light his room, but the results proved satisfactory.

Alfred nodded, actually a little proud of his work, and tied the strip into a circle around his forehead. It was a little small, so he had to try to tie a knot twice because he couldn't quite get enough length, but he managed. Shaking his head, rather like a dog, he made sure that the feather would stay. It bobbed and waved, but the thread held strong, reaching up to the sky from the center of his forehead.

His pocket watch, which he checked after briefly admiring his handiwork in a mirror, read 6:00. In one hour, the Sons would meet at Hawkin's smithy. They would then go to the dock, and toss all of the tea in those ships into the harbor. Because if the British were going to force their crappy tea onto the colonists, then Alfred sure as hell didn't want it.

* * *

Arthur clomped down the dark wooden stairs in his fancy military boots. Being a Major of the British Army did have its perks, because instead of being holed up in a warehouse or barn somewhere with the countless soldiers in Boston, he got to stay in an actual house, have his own room, and have all sorts of other luxuries that only a soldier could consider as such. This house belonged to one of the loyal families to the crown, and while not massive or overly lavish as many of the estates that dotted the British countryside were, it suited Arthur just fine.

The family, when he saw them, was kind, and always set a place for him at the dinner table, but usually, they just left him alone. This was exactly how Arthur liked it. It felt strange to be intruding on someone's property, eating their food, having them do his laundry. So he just stayed out of their way and tried to pretend that he wasn't so rudely taking over their house.

Which was why he wouldn't be dining with his benefactors tonight. And also, it was Friday, the end of the week, the perfect day to drink oneself practically silly at the nearest tavern. Arthur had a problem with certain alcoholic substances, he knew that, had had it for most of his life. But as far as he knew, he wasn't physically capable of suffering the long-term side effects of prolonged drunkenness like mortal men. Besides, what was the point of immortality if you couldn't have a little fun with it?

The heavy front door, its white paint beginning to chip a bit from the rain and wind, creaked pleasantly as Arthur opened it. He paused for a moment on the threshold as he caught his bearings. Arthur would freely admit that he hadn't lived in the middle of a city possibly ever. Sure, he'd lived in country homes, and castles which _overlooked_ cities, but he'd never been able to open his front door and find the street approximately two inches from his nose. Town homes had only recently become fashionable for the rich and for most of that time Arthur had been off to war, anyway, so this was all a new experience for him.

But after a few moments, Arthur stepped out onto the quickly darkening streets. The house was on a very high hill, and from its perch, Arthur could see the various wharves and docks laid out below him like slender dominoes reaching into the river and the sea beyond that. He couldn't help staring at the water, that beautiful, beautiful substance which glittered with the setting sun. Part of him, as always, longed to be out there on the open waves. The sea never asked him anything, never demanded anything of him. All it required was a boat and a steady hand to navigate it with. The sea simply accepted him. Arthur belonged on the sea, and never felt quite comfortable on solid ground. But it seemed as if the world always intended to pull him away from his eternal love, didn't it?

Turning regrettably away from the water, Arthur instead began to make his way to his other love: whiskey. His whiskey would never leave him either, unlike some spoiled rotten brat he knew. The tavern up ahead on the road was a favorite watering hole of the British soldiers' because it was large and always crowded, so a wee bit of rowdiness here or there went largely ignored. Arthur, in contrast to the rest of the red-coated rabble, prided himself on acting like a gentleman, but put a few shots in him and he was no better than the rest of them. At least, that was what he had heard. He didn't really remember much of what happened after he'd "had a few", if he was honest.

Arthur hurried on down the lane, the early winter wind biting at his nose. Boston summers were nice and mild because of the sea breeze, but the winters were bitter cold, and that same wind was the culprit. As he walked, he noticed just how quiet the street was. Had they always been _this_ void of activity?

No, they couldn't have been, because Arthur distinctly remembered this very street filled with people and noise not that long ago. It probably had something to do with the deathly cold that covered the city in a chilled sheet, but Arthur secretly suspected that the presence of the soldiers was largely to blame.

The colonists were scared of them, there was no doubt about that. Arthur couldn't count the number of times that some colonist or another had looked down as he passed. The common soldiers were uncouth, and rowdy, and worst of all: deadly with their huge guns which they barely knew how to use. As much as he hated to admit it, the higher-ups often ignored the horrible stories that they'd sometimes hear about the regulars. Dreadful stories, those were, absolutely awful. Often times, they involved some soldier or another taking a poor, defenseless woman, or heaven forbid, a _child_ into a back alley and-

But Arthur tried not to think about that. He couldn't quite believe the tales, let alone how _common_ they were, and preferred to keep it out of mind. Maybe that's why they were so often ignored; no one wanted to think about something like that. Arthur had admittingly done some truly nasty, horrible things in his time, but never something like that, had he?...

No, no. He was _definitely_ sure that nothing like that had _ever_ occurred. _Ever_. But regardless of his own personal conduct, the colonists most certainly had reason to fear the regulars. Arthur felt kind of bad about—there was simply no point in denying it now—occupying their city, but until those pesky Sons of Liberty or whatever they were calling themselves nowadays, he'd heard the word "Patriot" tossed around quite a bit, were squashed for good under the heel of Arthur's shiny leather boot, this was the only punishment that seemed appropriate.

What Arthur hadn't told the other commanders was that squishing this rebellion wasn't going to be quite as easy as they all seemed to assume. They underestimated the colonists, who had tamed this land from the wilderness to this great city and beyond with little to no help from their king. They underestimated their fire, and pride, but most of all, they underestimated Alfred. In fact, none of them even _knew_ that he existed. Arthur had never told another soul that a Nation existed in the colonies. This was because after Charlie, none of Britain's monarchs had been very stable. The centuries of inbreeding amongst themselves was finally catching up with them, (3) Arthur supposed, and he had been slightly afraid of what they would do with the knowledge that they also had a Nation to contend with on top of everything else.

The problem was that Alfred, the stupid git, counted himself among the Sons, and whether that particular organization knew it or not, things tended to go quite well for you if you had a Nation on your side. And they were planning something, Arthur could feel it. The air had been exceptionally thick with tension over the past few days, even more so than usual. Any day now, someone was going to snap, and when that happened, people were going to get hurt.

"Arthur!" Called a voice from behind him, back down the hill. Arthur turned, and found Captain Bailey, a fine young man from a good family, running up the hill towards him. There was something panicked in his duck-like gait as his girth shifted from foot to foot, Arthur could tell even from a distance. Whatever the boy was running from, it couldn't have been good.

"What's going on?" He shouted back, and approached a few paces down the hill. Bailey met him halfway, thoroughly out of breath. He held up a finger as he wheezed, trying to force air into his suffering lungs. The boy was a good commanding officer and an excellent strategist, but he was no soldier. He had always been a little pudgy, and sickly, anemic maybe, but Arthur didn't have time to waste. "For god's sake, man, spit it out!"

"The … The Sons", he panted, practically doubled over in his attempt to regain air. His chest heaved as he tried to produce words. "They're … the … the _tea_ … it's—"

Oh no. Not the tea. _Anything_ but the tea. The colonists _had_ been awfully testy about the tea tax lately. What on earth was Alfred _doing_? He had to be involved. The lad did love to make an idiot of himself.

"What have they done?" Arthur demanded, but the Captain seemed unable to form a coherent sentence. Arthur rolled his eyes, and shook the man by his shoulders. "Where?"

"Griffin's … Griffin's Wharf", Bailey managed to choke out, and Arthur was off, streaking back down the hill. That was the wharf where the three ships carrying tea to Boston had landed just recently. What on Earth were the Sons, was _Alfred_ doing?

He heard the splashing far before he saw it, far before he was able to get to the dock. When he finally placed a foot on the dark wood, he saw it. What was going on? He finally had his answer. Carefully, _impressively_ , far too organized for the common rabble, they were tossing the tea, his precious tea, into the harbor.

* * *

They met at Hawkin's Smithy at 7:00 just as planned. They were maybe two hundred in number, but that, Revere had said, was only a fraction of them. More would be arriving a short time after they left as to not draw too much attention to themselves, though Alfred thought privately that they were already in danger of "drawing attention to themselves" with two hundred, so what difference did more men make? But even as he thought this, Alfred quivered with a mix of emotions: excitement at the prospect of making a difference, anger at their oppressors, the monarchy, but most of all fear. What would happened when they were caught? With the numbers assembled now, and more coming later, their demonstration would by no means be quiet.

It sounded by the hushed whispers coming from the rabble that everyone else was coming to the same conclusion. The men muttered to each other, shuffled around from foot to foot, their heads turning from side to side like chickens. Revere must have noticed the tension, because he got up on a wooden crate to see over the crowd, and began to speak.

"Alright, listen up boys", he said, and waited as the noise of the crowd faded to silence. "I'm not going to pretend that no one's going to get hurt tonight. These Redcoats are no string-beans.", a whispered chuckle went up from the crowd. "So if anyone wants to go home and forget you were ever here, no one will blame you". The rabble muttered to itself, and very quickly came to a consensus. Only a few people towards the edge of the crowd actually broke off and left, and the rest stood stock still and glared up at Revere, as if daring him to send them home.

But all Revere did was smile in relief and gaze down with pride at the assembled Sons. Had he been afraid that more would get scared and go home? Alfred grinned broadly. Revere underestimated the Sons' mettle and how far they were willing to go for their Liberty, that untouchable, intangible thing that it was. "For those who've stayed", said Revere, "This is what we're going to do".

He went on about the three ships, filled to the brim with crates upon crates of tea that had just recently docked at Griffin's Wharf. It was unjust, he said, that they, as British citizens to the crown, should have shitty tea forced upon them from that very same government that they had been nothing but loyal to. The tea had been turned away at Charleston, but for some reason Britain thought it was a good idea to park their merchandise at the very city that was most likely to protest. And, Revere had added, the Sons would not disappoint.

"Now listen", Revere warned, "This is _not_ a riot. This is a _demonstration_. Anyone lay a hand on those ships or their crews, unless provoked, and they will have to answer to me. Got it?" The crowd collectively gulped. "All we're after is the tea", he admonished the crowd, and they looked down solemnly, humbled by his stern gaze. "Good", he smiled, and the tension dissipated just as quickly as it had arrived, "Let's go dump some tea".

No shouts went up, or whistles, or anything of that sort. Only a stern, collective nod. The Sons had changed from a rabble into a fighting force to behold in the blink of an eye. Alfred found himself drawn in with the rest of them as they began to prepare. It was amazing what one great public speaker could do with a crowd. He was actually quite impressed.

The Sons were all dressed in the garb of the natives, armed with tomahawks, ponchos pulled over their shoulders. Many of them probably would have gone shirtless, except that it was the middle of winter, and showing a bare chest in these conditions would be inviting frostbite, and the extreme condensation of the other Sons, who would have considered that poor sap an idiot. They stood around for a few minutes, stamping their moccasined feet against the frozen ground as a bucket of coal dust was passed around for them to cover their faces with as an extra precaution against identification.

Within a few minutes they were done, and with a rank and file unparalleled by any that _Alfred_ had seen, they marched to the wharf. The first bunch to arrive were trundled onto the first boat, _the Beaver_ , and met little to no resistance. The second group followed onto _the Dartmouth_ , and the sounds of crates hitting the water soon rung through the air.

A crowd was beginning to gather on the edge of the dock as the last group, Alfred's, began boarding _the Eleanor_. Revere waited just on board, watching the Sons as they calmly walked up the gangplank and waited on the ship for orders. As Alfred past, his hand fell on his shoulder. "You", Revere said, "You're Alfred, right?"

"Yes sir", Alfred nodded.

Revere had that look in his eyes that some people got when they met Alfred, that look that said that they thought something was wrong, but they couldn't quite place their finger on it. Alfred was far too used to those looks by now to really care much, so he just smiled vaguely as Revere paused.

Soon, however, he snapped out of his strange gaze. "I want you to approach the captain and _politely_ ask for the key to the hold".

Alfred saluted unironically. He had never been very good at deciphering the concept anyway. "On my way". Working his way through the confused crowd of Sons and Sailors, Alfred managed to get to the back of the boat, where a distinguished man who was probably the captain stood besides the helm. Alfred approached him. "Excuse me sir", he said, and the captain turned to him. "I'm with the Sons of Liberty", he nodded slowly, pondering methodically just what this meant. "We're here for your tea".

His eyes crinkling at the edges with crow's feet, the captain began to laugh. It was loud and hardy, one of those laughs that made everyone around them start giggling right along with him. It was kind of a ridiculous statement, Alfred could admit. "Is that all?" The captain asked.

"Afraid so", said Alfred, "I'm supposed to ask you for the key to the hold, so that we may fling the tea into the harbor. If you so please".

The captain was spasming uncontrollably with laughter. "It's yours", he managed to sputter. "I'm just the messenger. I get paid either way".

"My thanks to you", Alfred bowed, and took the brass key that the captain handed to him on a chain. He quickly found the door to the hold, and the Sons began to crowd around behind him. Though the lock stuck a little, Alfred managed to get it open. The Sons began to swarm like locusts until Revere raised his hand.

"Hey! Calmly men". The Sons, though a few of them rolled their eyes, lined up in an orderly fashion and proceeded one by one down into the dark. Alfred fell into line and followed the other Sons to the dark cabin of the ship's belly. It was damp, and smelled strongly of herbs and caffeine. There must have been a few hundred crates of tea down there, and Alfred sighed. This was going to take a long time.

He emerged back on deck, and took a deep breath. Many of the Sons loved their tea, but it was far too bitter for Alfred. He preferred coffee. It was just as bitter, but then you could put things like chocolate in it. It was a relief to get out of the strange-smelling hold, and he tried not to think about just how many times he would have to go down there in the next few hours.

Alfred gripped a crate, and tried to look like it was at least a little heavy for him. Really, the crate was light as a feather, and he probably could have carried three or four of them without much difficulty, but the other Sons were having trouble with just the one. So Alfred took his cue from them and stuck with one as well. If the tea smell became to strong, he could maybe stretch it to two without anyone getting suspicious, but even that would be pushing it.

Looking over the side of the ship, he saw bags upon bags of tea, some still in their crates, some floating freely to mix with the harbor water. _Arthur should be happy_ , he thought, a little bitterly, _this must be the biggest cup of tea he's ever seen_.

After dumping his own crate into the black sea below, Alfred happened to look back over to the dock. A practical mob had gathered there, each one as slack-jawed with shock as the last. They just stood there, not daring to interfere as if held back by some invisible force. Many of them were Redcoats.

One soldier pushed his way through the crowd and came to stand at the very edge of the dock, confusion etched on his face. It was Arthur, Alfred could tell right away, even from a distance. He would recognize those exceedingly large eyebrows anywhere. Arthur seemed to see him as well, because he stared directly across the water at him, and shook his head.

Alfred turned away. He didn't want to see that look of condescension anymore. He wasn't a child, didn't need to be looked after, and he would certainly not let anyone treat him as such. But still, as he pushed his way through the crowd back to the hold, Alfred couldn't get that look out of his mind, that awful look that seemed to say:

 _Oh Alfred. What have you done?_

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) I have no actual proof that it was Paul Revere's idea. Whoever came up with the Boston Tea Party is lost to history, but it seemed like a good opportunity to introduce him, so there you go.

(2) The major act which the Sons were against was the Stamp Act, which taxed paper, an essential resource for a majority of educated men at the time. There was also the aforementioned Quartering Act, and now there's this little thing called the Tea Act.

(3) This is decently common knowledge, but European royalty kind of had this thing about "Pure Blood" for a very, very, very long time. Which meant that you could only marry royalty or someone high up on the food chain. So of course by the 1700s, pretty much every king or queen in Europe were cousins. It was kind of incestuous, and really creepy.

* * *

 _I'm thinking of starting a Livejournal account to get my writing out there more, and so I can post regular updates and things. What do you all think? Seriously, let me know, I'd love to here from you all :). It's kind of lonely over here..._

 _Love you all, and I'll see you next week!_


	10. The (Yankee Doodle) Dandy

_Hello once again, everyone. If you've stuck around this long, wow, you're seriously awesome! Thank you so much. Not much to say this chapter, except that the war is actually starting now, finally, so things are going to get exciting! Super excited. The middle slog is behind us!_

* * *

Chapter Nine

The (Yankee Doodle) Dandy

April 19th, 1775

"You see those men?" Elizabeth had asked, pointing out of the second story window to the street below, where a rag-tag group of men and boys who could have been no older than seventeen were walking out of town. Katerina watched her finger, which came to the delicate point that could only belong to a lady, and smiled a bit at the bric-a-brac bunch. "They're going to die".

"They're going to join the Minutemen (1)", Katerina replied, "That doesn't mean that they're going to die".

Elizabeth scoffed. "Oh yes it does", she said. "All soldiers die". Katerina's sister had a rather bleak opinion of soldiers she supposed, but you couldn't really blame her. Not when the last man she had loved had died on duty to the crown. Katerina had lost someone to violence as well, and although Sam had been killed by a soldier, it had only had the opposite effect on her as opposed to that of her sister, for that loss had only strengthened her opinion that the only way out of the quickly encroaching violence was to supply more. They would have to fight fire with fire, and her loss would be only one of many casualties.

"Well, I think they're brave", she said. Elizabeth simply shook her head.

But that loss of someone close was the one thing that the two of them shared, the one thing that tied them together. When the world had fallen down around them, they were the only thing that the other had. So they had supported each other. But the similarities ended there.

Elizabeth was blonde and fair, the perfect example of a good daughter. She was always kind and courteous to everyone she met. At twenty-four she was nearing the end of her prime. If she didn't find a husband soon, she would remain a spinstress forever. It wasn't for lack of suitors, mind you, the problem seemed to be that she couldn't forget her soldier. That was her one fault: she wouldn't settle for anyone else. "You have to forget about him and move on", their father berated her, gazing down from his long, thin nose. And all she did was look down at the floor and say:

"Yes father".

Katerina couldn't believe it. If he had said that to her, she never would have been so complacent. That was how they differed. Whereas Elizabeth took after their mother, god—or whoever was actually in charge—rest her soul, Katerina didn't seem to take after either of her parents. She was small and mousy, with dark tangled hair and sallow skin, and as a rule, she never did what she was told.

Needless to say, Katerina had never put much stock in religion. As far as she was concerned, you only had one life on this earth until you were a rotting corpse in the ground, so you had best make the most of it. Which was partially why she acted the way she did. You simply couldn't contain her no matter how hard you tries, because when Katerina set her mind to something, she wouldn't be stopped by anyone.

Like that time when she was ten, and her uncle had come down from Canada, where he was a trapper, for a visit, and to work out some sort of deal with her father, who sold the furs that her uncle trapped. Katerina had become obsessed with learning how to shoot a gun. She had listened, enraptured, to the many stories her uncle told her about the adventures he'd had up north, and she had decided that she wanted to be a trapper too. Her uncle had laughed heartily when she'd asked him about it, but he humored her by telling her that she should ask her father about it first.

He must have known what his reaction would be: "Absolutely not", he'd said, "How many times do I have to tell you? Your job is to learn how to be a good wife and mother. You simply can't run off to Canada to be a trapper". Katerina rolled her eyes. "No matter what other ideas you have, god has chosen to make you a girl".

She groaned. "Why does that matter at all. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't do everything you boys can". Even at ten, she had already developed strong feelings of rebellion. She would simply not let her father tell her what she could and could not do.

"Because", he intoned, "You are supposed to get married and have children. That's how the world works".

"But that's stupid!" She said. "I never want to have kids anyway. They're boring and gross".

Her father sighed, and finally tore his eyes away from his business papers to stare down at her with a tired gaze from behind his spectacles. "I'm sorry, my dear, but that's just how the world works. It is god's will".

"Well screw god, then", she scrunched up her small hands into fists and narrowed her eyes, as if daring the heavens to smite her where she stood.

Luckily, it wasn't the heavens that smited her. Her father stood up from his desk, fire in his eyes like an almighty god of thunder. "Go to your room." He rumbled. "Now".

"But—" she began.

"Now!"

And for her father, that was that. There would be no further discussion about apprenticeships, or trapping, or guns. But Katerina wouldn't accept that. If she was going to do something without her father's permission, however, she would have to smart about it. So she bided her time as her uncle packed up and went back to Canada. Then, two days later, in the middle of the night, Katerina stole a horse and followed him.

He'd laughed when she'd caught up with him. "You really were serious about that apprenticeship". She'd nodded, smiling. "Well alright. But you're to go back home as soon as your father calls for you".

Father had sent her a letter a few weeks later, demanding her return, but she'd kept it hidden. Eventually the truth did come out and she was sent back home. Then she was punished. Harshly. But not before she'd learned to fire that gun, although she hadn't been very good at the time.

She was better now though, much better, because she had been practicing. For the last eleven years, whenever she could get away, Katerina would sneak out to the woods with one of her father's guns and shot at things. Sometimes trees or rocks, sometimes birds or squirrels. She's actually caught one or two of those, and found squirrel meat to be very delicious. It kind of tasted like chicken. Eventually, after those eleven years, Katerina had become a pretty decent shot.

Which was why when she saw that the Minutemen were recruiting, Katerina couldn't see one reason why she shouldn't be allowed to join their ranks. The British army was huge, and their navy even bigger still. The rebels could use all of the help they could get. And so what if she was a girl? As long as she could hold her own on the battlefield, that shouldn't matter a bit.

Unfortunately, they didn't see it that way. The Minutemen laughed at her, laughed right to her face. "You?" One of them asked incredulously. "But you're a girl".

"So?" She demanded. "Why does that matter? I can shoot just as well as any of you. Probably better".

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say, sweetheart". The Minutemen said, laughing. "Now go on home to your husband and let us men protect you". He put an arm around her shoulder and guided her a few paces back down the road in the complete wrong direction.

But Katerina didn't want to be protected, she wanted to protect herself. But she went home anyway, pretended to be a good daughter, just like her father wanted. By now though, you're probably all aware that Katerina's ambition didn't end there. She had a plan. There was one more trick she could try.

"You're going to do something rash, aren't you?" Elizabeth asked as they gazed out of that window at the rebels below, outlined by the setting sun, which turned the whole town below orange.

"What makes you think that?" Katerina couldn't look at her. If she saw that inevitable sorrowful expression on her sister's face, she wouldn't be able to go through with it, wouldn't be able to leave her alone with their father again.

Elizabeth sighed. "Because you've got that guilty look that you always get right before you do something stupid".

Katerina couldn't respond, because she was absolutely right. So she didn't say anything, just looked down at the Minutemen below. "Look", said Elizabeth, "Whatever you're planning, I won't try to stop you, just—" She paused, "Be careful".

Finally, Katerina was able to look at her sister. She smiled. "I'll do my best".

"That's what I'm worried about".

And now, after everyone had gone to bed, Katerina put her plan into motion. She sat in front of her vanity and brushed her long brown hair out behind her. Then slowly, methodically, she began to braid it, savoring the silky feeling of her hair against her skin. If she was going to help defend her home, then sacrifices would have to be made.

She paused for a moment, imagining just what her father would say if he could see her at this moment. He'd probably yell her head off for her obnoxious "Ideas above her station". She smiled. This final act of rebellion would be her greatest yet. She took her frizzy braid in one hand, and a pair of scissors from the vanity's drawer, and stopped again.

"All soldiers die", her sister had said. Had she known what she was about to do? Tried to warn her, maybe? Probably. Elizabeth was good at reading people. Katerina took a deep breath, hoping for her own sake that she wasn't right.

Then she placed the braid in between the blades of the scissors, and cut.

* * *

It still felt strange to walk outside and breathe in air that wasn't perfumed with various human smells. It felt strange to _realize_ that that was strange, because not too long ago he had almost suffocated from the smelly city air. He had taken fresh air like this for granted. Alfred stood in the doorway of the small wooden house for a minute, just enjoying the early spring breeze that danced through his door.

He'd finally moved away from Boston, if only to the small town of Lexington just a short distance away. It was the Destruction of the Tea (2) that did it. Even if his face had been covered with coal dust, the fact that he'd been seen and most of all _recognized_ provided a wonderful excuse to skip town. He'd been living in the city for far too long, anyway. Not that he didn't appreciate the hustle and bustle of largely populated areas, because they never failed to fascinate him, but there was just something about the raw wilderness that called to him. Lexington had been the perfect escape he'd been hoping for. His only problem with it was that it was a wee bit out of the loop on the affairs of the Sons, and Alfred could only hope that he hadn't missed too much.

It was very early in the morning, and most people in the sleepy little town were just that: asleep, even as the sun began to rise behind the trees. This was good for Alfred, because it meant that he was that less likely to get caught hoisting a whole, newly-felled tree over his shoulder as if it was a broom as he strolled around to the back of his house to split some more logs for the fire, which was dangerously low.

Back in Boston, you had to pay for firewood, because there were certainly no trees in the city, and even if they were, chopping one down was likely to cause a crushed building and very angry neighbors. It was a lot cheaper to live out here, now that he thought about it. Not that Alfred worried about money much. Eternal youth, and somewhat greater than average strength had allowed him to save quite a bundle. He hadn't had to work for the last ten years. That being said, he certainly didn't live like a king or anything, but he was comfortable. Of course, the money would run out sometime and then he'd have to start working again, but he didn't mind. Manual labor kept his mind busy.

For most people, splitting logs took a great deal of effort and stamina, but Alfred simply split through them like a knife through butter. _His_ problem was that he often broke either the stump that kept the logs at a good height for chopping, or the axe itself. He knew that he had to be careful, but sometimes Alfred just got carried away.

So it was there as he held yet another broken axe handle when he heard the horse riding into town. If you were going for speed, a horse could be a marvelously fast and efficient animal, but if you were looking for something more stealthy, then you were frankly better off on foot. Alfred could hear the clomp of its hooves and jingle as the animal shook its head against the reigns from all of the way across town. Then again, there was almost no other noise except the birds in the trees, which made the sound echo and bounce off of the trees, but the point still stood.

He walked back around the house, curious, the broken handle still clutched in his hand, to see who could possibly be riding through at such an hour. And there, looking tired and frazzled, practically falling asleep in the saddle was none other than Paul Revere. He caught sight of Alfred in a few seconds, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. "Alfred, is that you? Or am I so tired that I'm hallucinating?" He asked, riding a few paces closer.

Alfred closed the distance. "No, you're not hallucinating", he laughed. "What's up, man?"

Revere looked upwards. "Um ... the sky is all, I think. Why do you want to know?"

Running a hand through his hair, Alfred chuckled nervously. "Oh, no reason. Figure of speech. What's going on?"

"Oh, right", Revere said, yawning. "I keep thinking about sleep. I keep forgetting. It's the Regulars, they're marching to Concord to seize our arms. We need to mobilize the Minutemen".

"What?" Had things gotten so bad that the soldiers to come to the peaceful little town of Lexington? Sure, they might have had secret stores of arms for the rebels, but that was no reason to use force. Alfred couldn't believe it. After these six years of oppression and tension, someone had sneezed, and the quiet unease was broken. Blood was going to be shed today, Alfred could feel it.

"Adams and Hancock. They're here, right?" Revere's horse let out a nervous whinny, no doubt sensing the electric surge that was moving through the air as the tension spread.

Alfred nodded. "They're holed up in the Parsonage".

"I need to inform them at once", Said Revere. Alfred opened his mouth to ask what he could do, but Revere supplied an answer before he could get a word out. "I'll need people to warn Concord. Will you do that?"

"Will do", said Alfred, and they went their separate ways; Revere to the parsonage to warn Hancock and Adams and hopefully get some sleep, and Alfred to the stable of one of his neighbors. They were Patriots, certainly they wouldn't mind if he … borrowed a horse for a few hours. It was a matter of dire importance after all.

He didn't put a saddle on the first horse he saw, there simply wasn't time. So he just climbed on bareback and hoped for the best. Luckily, horseback riding was just one of those things that you couldn't live for some hundred-odd years and not learn how to do, so Alfred was able to control the horse enough to get it out of town and streaking through the woods towards Concord without much trouble. It was certainly a bumpy ride as the horse navigated the small, ill-maintained path through the woods at breakneck speed, and it was a constant struggle to stay on without a saddle, but Alfred managed. No matter what, he had to get the message to Concord as soon as he could, had to warn the Minutemen there to be ready, because when the Redcoats came, no one would be safe from their barely concealed blood-lust. They would have to defend themselves, or die trying.

Alfred didn't know exactly what he'd do after he'd delivered his message; join the defense, he supposed. But a thought kept nagging at him: what if Arthur was there? What if he was among the regulars pointing a gun at innocent people, _his_ people? Could he shoot his own brother?

Of course, it wouldn't kill him, but Nations, while unable to die, were still very much able to feel pain. And it was really about the principle of the thing, wasn't it? That would be the final nail in the proverbial coffin. After that, there would be no going back to the way things had been before. There would be no forgiveness, for _either_ of them. They would, if they even still were now, no longer be brothers.

He didn't know quite how long he'd ridden for, but the sun had risen high in the sky by the time that he was sure Concord wasn't much further down the road. Had the regulars torn through the fragile defenses at Lexington and had already beaten him to Concord? Would he arrive only to see a smoking ruin where once there was a peaceful town? For the colonists' sake, he hoped he wasn't too late.

"Ho there!" Said a voice from behind him, back down the road. Alfred pulled back as gently as he could manage on the horse's mane, praying it would stop. Luckily for him, it did, and he was able, through some trial and error, to get it to turn back down the direction in which they had come. A few paces down the path, Alfred caught a glimpse of the bright red that adorned a regular's uniform, and his heart rose to his throat. This was it, they had caught him red-handed sending messages to the rebels.

He could still run now. There were only four soldiers, and while he had a horse, they were on foot. But three of them had their muskets primed and ready to fire. Even if he had his extra speed, they could strike him down for a good few hundred feet down the path. Except then he noticed that wary, hunted look they had about them. One of them had a bandage wrapped around his head, and stumbled around a bit, looking lost, and another limped as he walked. They were not in good shape.

"Don't stop him", one of them whispered at a volume that he obviously wasn't meant to hear. He heard it anyway. "He's got nothing on him".

The one who had shouted, and seemed to be the leader, whispered something back to the rest, but Alfred couldn't quite make it out.

Had the defenders at Lexington actually pulled through enough that the regulars were running willy-nilly through the forest? (3) If they had broken their formation, why that would be the best thing Alfred had heard all day! He had to know what was going on. If he was careful, maybe he could wheedle some information out of these soldiers.

In retrospect, Alfred really wasn't the best at being careful.

"Hello", he said, as the regulars approached him cautiously, guns and hackles raised.

"Where are you headed?" The leader asked, trying to assume authority. His eyes shifted back and forth through the trees as if expecting as ambush. If only Alfred had one to give him.

Alfred shrugged, trying to hide his fear. "Just going up to Concord".

The soldiers stiffened. Crap. That had been the wrong thing to say. Nice going, Al. One of the regulars, the one with the bloody bandage, started to panic and raised his gun at Alfred. It shook in his hands. "He-he's a spy for the rebels! He's going to lead us into an attack".

They turned to one another and muttered something that Alfred couldn't hear. He should run right now, but he found himself frozen in place atop the horse. But the soldiers looked even more terrified than Alfred felt. Scared people did stupid things, Alfred knew this better than anyone else. Alfred could only talk his way out of this now. "Get off the horse", said the first soldier, the calmest in the bunch, and Alfred complied slowly, hands raised above his head.

"You're making a mistake", he said, "I'm no spy".

"That's exactly the thing a ruddy spy would say!" Said the bandaged one, pointing a trembling finger at him.

"We should just kill him now", said another, and took a step in Alfred's direction. "He knows where we are".

"Hold on now!", Alfred choked out, beginning to panic. They couldn't kill him, but they didn't know that. And what would happen when they realized that he simply wouldn't die? Probably hurt him very, _very badly_. Terrified soldiers could do awful things. Fear was not a thing to be tested.

"No, no", said the first soldier, as he motioned for two of the others to restrain him. "But I'll tell you what we _will_ do", and before Alfred could do anything to stop him, the regular raised his gun above Alfred's head and brought the butt down with a sickening crunch.

Alfred was really not the best at being careful.

* * *

It was dark when Alfred came to, the only discernable light coming from a fire that the regulars were huddled around a short distance from where he lay. His head ached and he smacked his lips in an attempt to get rid of the cottony feel that was sitting on his tongue. Suppressing the urge to cough, he didn't want to alert the regulars, Alfred stayed as still as he could in his spot propped against the trunk of a tree.

From his position here he couldn't see much, two of the regulars backs were to him and blocked much of the scene, but from what he could tell, there were only three regulars around the fire, and his horse was nowhere to be found. This wasn't good. There had been four of them before. So where had the other gone? He could have taken the horse and gone for help while the rest stayed behind.

This was _seriously_ not good. If the escaped regular brought back more of his friends, Alfred didn't stand a chance at escaping. He may have been strong, but certainly not enough to take on a whole brigade of redcoats. If the British found out who he was, _what_ he was, he honestly had no idea what they'd do with him. He didn't really want to think about it.

"What are we going to do with _him_?" Asked one of the regulars, pointing in Alfred's direction, "We can't let him go".

"Why not?" Asked one of the others, younger than the rest. He had a large open face and watery blue eyes. He was _too_ young to be a soldier. A kid his age shouldn't have had to see stuff like this.

"Because, idiot", the first, "He'll go back to the rebels and tell them what piss-poor shape we're in".

Oh? The Redcoats weren't doing so well? This was certainly news to Alfred, who had, of course, been out of the loop for most of the day now. But thank you, that would be _very_ valuable information to take back to the rebels when he escaped.

That is, _if_ he escaped. As he took stock of his surroundings, trying to formulate some kind of a plan, Alfred realized that his wrists were tied together, and his arms were wrapped around the trunk of the tree. The rope would be simple enough to break, just a matter of pulling his hands apart, but the inevitable snapping noise would alert to regulars that he was awake. So he sat there still, biding his time.

Just as he was thinking about how to wheedle his way out of the ropes _without_ making noise, a fluttering of wings in the trees disturbed the already edgy regulars, one of whom stood up, musket at the ready. "What was that?" Asked the young one, panicky.

They both paused, listening for any more sounds. When all was calm for about a minute or so, they relaxed. "Must have been a bird", the nervous one sat down again, and both of them turned their attention to the regular with the bandage wrapped around his head, who it seemed had keeled over at some point when the others weren't looking.

"He needs help", said the young one, crouching over him. "Where is Hugh? Shouldn't he be back by now?"

The nervous man scoffed. "Lieutenant Hugh", and this he mocked heartily, "Isn't coming back. He probably told us he was going to get some help so that we wouldn't stop him from taking that horse".

"Bastard", the young one said. The word sounded strange coming from such an innocent looking boy, and Alfred almost laughed despite himself.

The fidgety regular nodded in agreement. "It's quiet", he said, and then began to whistle. It must have been a nervous habit. The tune was one that Alfred recognized, but couldn't quite place any words with the melody. What _was_ that song? Wasn't there something about macaroni in it?

After a moment, Alfred got his answer. Because just then, a voice from somewhere deep in the surrounding woods echoed the regular.

"Yankee doodle,

Keep it up.

Yankee doodle Dandy" (4).

The regulars stood up and held their guns at the ready. They turned their heads this way and that, panicking. "Who's there?" Asked the young one, "What's going on?"

"Mind the music,

And the step,

And with the girls be—"

A deafening bang interrupted the last word, and the younger regular fell to the ground in a hail of gunfire. "Rogers! Rogers! Shit!" Shouted the fidgety one as he plopped down on the forest floor in an attempt to dodge the bullets that were shooting through the air over his head.

Now. Now was the time for Alfred to act. After a moment, the gunfire ceased, and without thinking, Alfred broke the ropes which had entangled his wrists and ran over to the two regulars. He kneeled down and grabbing the shoulders of the unwounded regular, held him in place.

Of course, trying to be noble and prevent the regulars from escaping had been a dumb idea, it seemed like Alfred was just chalk full of those, because the instant after he'd subdued the regular, Alfred heard the click of a loaded gun behind his head. "Who are you?" asked a voice, gruff and low. Alfred let go of the regular and raised his hands in the air. The regular struggled a bit, but Alfred's knee was still resting on his back, so he couldn't move.

"I'm on your side", said Alfred. He grabbed at the chain around his neck and carefully, trying his best to make sure his hands were visible at all times, pulled out the Son's medallion. He held it up to the firelight, where the images of the flames danced across its bumps and ridges. "I'm with the Sons".

The person behind him grabbed the medallion and examined it for a second. "So you are", he said. The voice whistled, and a whole group of rag-tag men in varying shades of brown and green emerged from the trees. Two of them grabbed the conscious regulars, the younger luckily only hit in the shoulder. It probably hurt like hell, but he'd live. The person that the voice belonged to walked in front of Alfred, and one to revealed to be a man who couldn't have been a day over twenty, but who had already grown a full beard. He offered a hand down to Alfred, his green eyes twinkling. "Sorry about that", he said as Alfred took it and stood up, brushing bits of twigs from his shirt, "But you can never be sure who strange men in the woods are".

"No problem, dude", Alfred said.

"Dude?" The man asked. "What is that, Dutch?"

You'd be surprised how many people asked him that. "Sure", said Alfred, "That's as good as answer as any. I'm Alfred". Now he held out his hand.

"Billy", said the man, taking it. "Billy Carmichael. I'm with the Minutemen". Alfred nodded. "We were just busy mopping up the rest of the regulars".

Mopping up? Had the battle really faired that well for the colonists? "What are you doing all of the way out here?" Billy asked.

"I _was_ riding to Concord to warn them about the regulars", Alfred explained, "But then I was stopped by them", he pointed back to the regulars, and the only one still conscious, the younger one had since passed out from pain probably, spit on the ground.

Billy just laughed. "I hate to break it to you, my friend, but you're a little late. We've already won".

"Really?" Asked Alfred, not quite able to believe it. "That's fantastic".

"Gives you hope about our chances, doesn't it?"

"So the war's on then?" Asked Alfred nervously. He couldn't help it, because if he was honest, the rebels' chances in open warfare were slimmer than he would have liked. The British Empire was a great fiery beast that they had just poked with a stick, with millions of soldiers at its disposal and a thousand years worth of experience in the art of war. It practically loomed over the colonies.

But they would never win with that attitude. Alfred's somewhat gormless optimism quickly took over. Their chances might have not been great, but they were certainly greater than none. And didn't the fact that he was alive prove that they could win. He was _America_ , after all, his own Nation, and he wanted to become one more than anything else. He wanted to stand beside Arthur and everyone else that he hadn't met yet, not in their shadows.

He smiled. "Where can I sign up?"

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) The Minutemen were a force of rag-tag soldiers that the Massachusetts Provincial Government, which was technically an illegal organization, had put together to defend the colony. They were called as such because they should be ready to fight at a "minute's notice".

(2) The term "Boston Tea Party" wasn't actually coined until the mid-19th century. Before that it was simply called the "Destruction of the Tea", which wasn't quite as creative, but did its job.

(3) Of course, this wasn't what actually happened. The Minutemen, severely outnumbered, had to fall back at Lexington and only later beat the Regulars at Concord, when they broke into companies to find supplies and were defeated in smaller numbers. Alfred, however, doesn't know this at the time.

(4) "Yankee Doodle Dandy" was originally a song that the British sang to make fun of the Americans, but in an ironic twist, the colonists then adapted it into their theme song. It was pretty awesome.

* * *

 _Oh! Almost forgot! I finally opened up that Livejournal account I was discussing last chapter. There's a link to it on my profile page. It will mostly just be another place to upload my work, but there will be updates there, so that I don't need to make such massive author's notes, so please follow it if you want to know what's happening! There'll also be some one-shots and things posted there that I will not post here, so be sure to check it out!_


	11. The Hill

_Another week, another chapter. This one gets a little intense. I might have to boost the rating up... What do you guys think? I'll leave it as is for now, but if it gets much worse, I will boost it up to M ..._

 _Also, please please please check my livejournal, I've got important updates on there pertaining to you. Yes, you! So be sure to check it, follow it, whatever it is that you do on there..._

* * *

Chapter Ten

The Hill

June 10th, 1775

The men stood in a line in the dirt clearing as the sergeant gave instructions. Well, maybe it wasn't a line so much as a curve, because the men in the middle had begun to lean forward to see the drill sergeant, and then the other men further along couldn't see either, so they took a step forward, and so on and so on down the line until it was really not a line at all anymore.

Alfred wished the sergeant would notice and correct them, because the disorganization of it all was really starting to irk him. If everyone just stood in a line like they were _supposed_ to then everyone could see. Any group of soldiers would know that. This bric-a-brac bunch were certainly not soldiers. Not yet. At this rate, he thought bitterly, they might not ever be.

They'd been training here, at this camp just far enough away from Boston to not draw the ire of the redcoats, for a month now, a it seemed to Alfred that little to no progress had been made at all. The problem wasn't morale, because most of the recruits were practically itching for a fight, but of patience. They were mostly Massachusetts men, many of them from Boston itself, and they were very quickly losing patience at the time that it was taking to train them. They wanted to get their home back, free their friends and families from British occupation. But they would have to wait. If they weren't trained, than the professional soldiers on the side of the British would crush them flat.

And that stretched to the root of the problem right there: these were _not_ professionally trained soldiers. These men were farmers, craftsmen. They had a lot of passion and fire, but that was simply not how you won a war. Discipline was minimal, they had no desire to follow orders unless they directly benefited them. At least the British soldiers, thuggish though they were, were able to march in straight lines and, at the very least, _look_ intimidating.

There were only a couple of people who really gave off the "soldiery" vibe to Alfred. Billy was one of them. After Concord they had both gone to sign up for the army together, and, well, Alfred guessed that they were kind of friends. He hadn't really had a friend since Sam, and he hoped that this friendship wouldn't end the same way. But Billy really _did_ seem like a soldier, more than the rest of them, anyway. He stood at attention in the line, next to Alfred, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Alfred didn't know exactly what it was, he was a farm boy from just outside of Philadelphia, really no different from the rest of them. Maybe it was the way he held himself. He was a big grizzly-bear of a man, but he stood with dignity, completely comfortable in his own skin. Alfred envied him a little. He was more than a hundred years old and _still_ wasn't able to exude that kind of confidence.

A few of the other recruits had potential, like the red-haired Irishman McNally, but most of them were either too fiery and impatient, or just plain lazy. Was this really the best that the colony of Massachusetts, birthplace of the revolution, could come up with? Alfred sure hoped that someone would come along to whip them into shape, and quickly, before the British squashed them like annoying insects.

"You", the sergeant said, pointing to someone in the line a short distance away from Alfred. He was new, and trying to familiarize himself with what he had to work with. Alfred stood on his tiptoes, trying to see who he was barking at, because said person was terribly short. "What's your name?" He asked, bearing down on the recruit.

"Carter", said the man, "Thomas Carter, sir". His voice had a strange, thin quality to it, but Alfred didn't think much of it.

"You're a little young", the sergeant commented. "Just how old _are_ you, Carter?" He stared Carter down, but the man didn't even flinch, just glanced back up at him with a determined frown plastered across his face.

Still, Carter paused. "Eighteen, sir".

The sergeant narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't happened to be _lying_ to me, would you, Private?" Carter visibly gulped.

"No sir", he said confidently, surprisingly good at masking his nervousness. But he was most certainly not telling the truth, Alfred knew that much. He was probably a lot younger than he claimed, maybe he needed the money that being a soldier provided. More likely than not, however, he was one of those spoiled rich kids who ran away from home to join the revolution, just for the shits and giggles. He would very quickly learn that this was not a game. He might very well die finding that out.

Carter stared the sergeant down until he looked away. As he continued on down the line, snarling at anyone who flinched, Carter sighed in relief and relaxed. But then, hearing the noise, the sergeant turned back around for a second and he immediately straightened up again, stiff as a board. The sergeant nodded, satisfied.

He then passed Billy, and actually smiled a bit. Of course he approved. Then his eyes fell on Alfred and he stopped. "And what's _your_ name, Private?" He asked. When he was up close and in his face, he quite reminded Alfred of a snarling bulldog, and he had to work hard to not start backing away.

"A-Alfred Jones", said Alfred.

"Alfred Jones...?" Asked the sergeant, as if waiting for something more. He raised an eyebrow as Alfred struggled, his face hot.

"Alfred Jones..." He began, then after pausing for a second, figured out what it was the sergeant wanted. "Alfred Jones, _sir_ ". Alfred smiled, proud of himself.

But the sergeant merely grunted begrudgingly, then continued his interrogation, scarier than ever. "And just where are you from, Private Jones?"

"Uh..." Now it was Alfred's turn to pause. How could he possibly answer that question? He'd been moving around for most of his life, and no one place really felt that much like home to him. He could say Philadelphia, he supposed, because that was the first place he'd ever stayed for more than a few months. But that place hadn't been home since the colonists had tried to burn him alive. He could say Boston, because all in all, that's where he had lived the longest. But Boston had never truly felt like home either, because that's where Arthur had left him. Alfred realized that he didn't actually know what having a home felt like.

"Everywhere", he said simply. "Everywhere, _sir_ ", he added as an afterthought.

"That is an awful lot of places", said the sergeant, and the other recruits began to chuckle at his joke. "Did I _tell_ you to laugh?" He growled at them, and they promptly shut their mouths.

The sergeant turned back to Alfred, wiping a bit of saliva away from his large jaw. "Stand up straight, Private. You're slouching".

"Yes sir", said Alfred, reaching up to his full height, which made him taller than at least half of the other recruits, and the sergeant resumed his prowl down the line.

Eventually, the sergeant finished his inspection and stood in front of them all, shaking his head slowly. He stared them down, daring them to move a muscle. "Now as you all have probably guessed, I am here for a reason", a series of mumbled words and nods went down the line, but they immediately ceased as he eyeballed them with a gaze that could have melted ice. "Your commanding officers", he said, "Think that you boys might be ready to see some action".

Alfred perked up, as did the rest of the recruits. He meant that they might actually get to do some fighting? After all of this waiting that he'd had to endure? The pointless exercises? The grueling slog of training? "I disagree", the sergeant continued, and Alfred deflated. "I think you're a bunch of no-good, lazy sons of bitches". Alfred's eyes narrowed. That wasn't very nice. True, he didn't actually have a mother as far as he was aware, but if he had, he would most certainly have been offended. "So today you've got to prove to me that you're ready to fight for real".

They started with shooting. The number of guns and ammunition (1) was severely limited, so they would each only shoot at the target, which was just a roundish piece of wood painted red in the middle, five times. They lined up twenty feet away and waited for the order to fire. After a short pause, when the sergeant deemed them ready, he shouted "Fire!" and Alfred's ears rang with the explosion of sound that ensued as the recruits pulled the trigger of their muskets simultaneously.

The thing about muskets was that they weren't the most accurate pieces of equipment ever invented, and anything further than sixty feet was almost impossible to hit without incredible luck. It was also somewhat up to chance whether the bullet hit its target even _in_ range. Rifles were better, but they were expensive and time-consuming to make, time which the Continentals frankly didn't have.

Luckily for Alfred, his bullet managed to tear its way through the wood towards the edge of the target with a loud thump and a puff of wood grain. He smiled. "Prime and load", ordered the sergeant, and the recruits proceeded to reload their muskets as fast as it was humanly possible to. Alfred thought that he went pretty quickly, as he replaced the bullet in the cartridge and poured some of the gunpowder from his powder horn down the barrel.

But he had to pause as he looked to his left where Carter was reloading. The boy was moving as fast as lightning, not even having to concentrate on what he was doing as he stared down the target, as if daring it to move. Within a few seconds, he was done and had hoisted the musket, which looked almost comically big for him, back into firing position, waiting for the order. Alfred shook his head in disbelief and went back to reloading his _own_ gun when Carter glanced over to see him staring slack-jawed in his direction.

"Fire", the sergeant yelled again just as Alfred finished, and the recruits fired once more. The noise wasn't quite as intense this time, partially because he was now half-deaf—only temporarily of course, immortality and all—but also because about a third of the recruits hadn't managed to reload in time. A few additional shots rang out late, and the sergeant rolled his eyes. Alfred missed that time, and the time after that as well, although he _did_ hit again the fourth time, actually pretty close to the center. Carter had managed to hit his every time but one, and they were all close to the center.

Alfred leaned over to him as they were reloading once again. "How are you doing that, man?" He asked.

"Doing what?" He whispered back, already done and back in position.

"You know", Alfred shrugged, "Hitting almost every single time".

Carter thought for a second, as if he almost didn't know how he was doing it. "Well, it's mostly up to chance, of course", he said finally, "These are a lot less accurate than the rifles I'm used to, hence the missed shot. But if you hold your breath while you aim, it helps offset some of the randomness". Alfred raised an eyebrow. This kid _definitely_ had some education in his background. He spoke like a textbook. "And", he added, almost as an afterthought, "You're aiming too high. These fire flatter than hunting rifles. Like this".

The sergeant commanded them to fire again, and this time, Alfred hit the target again. Because that was the last shot, the recruits waited for instructions from the sergeant, but none came. The sergeant was gazing off towards the edge of the clearing. Alfred followed his gaze and saw someone riding out of the forest on horseback.

"I have a message", he shouted, "From the King"

* * *

Back at camp, the news was whispered through the ranks. The king had sent a message to the rebels directly. He'd issued a proclamation that any rebels who laid down their arms and surrendered right there and then would be issued a full pardon and allowed to go about his business as if this whole revolution thing had never even happened. Alfred couldn't believe it. Britain wasn't even taking the revolution seriously. The king wouldn't have dared to suggest that if he'd been fighting France. He would have been laughed out of Europe.

Of course, this was only the rumor. Who knew if it was actually true or not? Not even the recruits who had been there when the letter was delivered knew the true contents, though several of them claimed to have overheard the sergeant whispering about it to a captain on the way back to camp. Though it could have been only guff, Alfred secretly suspected that it was true. It seemed like just the thing for Arthur to do, to underestimate him again, take him for granted, things like that. Well not anymore.

"What do you think it's _really_ about", Alfred asked Billy as they trekked through the forest.

"I don't know", he said, sounding calm. But Alfred could tell that he was worried about it. To tell the truth, Alfred was too. If the letter was true, than he didn't know just how many soldiers would quit right then and there. Would there be anyone left to fight at all? "Whatever it is", said Billy, shaking his head, "It can't be good".

The other soldiers past the news back and forth, discussed it at great length even. Just what would they do when the time came to make a decision? Would they stay or would they go? It seemed as he listened, however, that the soldiers were madder about it than anything. Parliament had probably been hoping that the proclamation would spread dissent through the ranks, but it appeared as if it was doing the exact opposite. The great state of Britain, the Mother Country, the soldiers said, was treating them as if they were naughty children who could be sorted out with a firm talking to. They were not children, and this was serious business.

Actually, now that he really thought about it, Alfred came upon the idea that Britain not taking this war seriously might actually be the best case scenario for the Continentals. It would put a fire in their bellies, who wanted more than anything to prove themselves, and the British wouldn't send in their whole fighting force if they didn't think it was worth it.

They were kept in the dark about the message for five days. Five _loooonnnnggg_ days. It was a good strategy, being just the right amount of time for the soldiers' curiosity to be peaked, but not so long that they lost interest and forgot all about it. On the fifth night, the Colonel, William Prescott, a distinguished gentleman with an even temperament, gathered all of the troops under his command together.

"You're probably all wondering", he began, "About the note which we received from the King himself five days ago". A great rustle went through the crowd as the soldiers muttered to each other and shuffled around in order to get a good view of the Colonel. "And everything you've heard it ... true". The quiet muttering roared to life as this sudden news was discussed among the soldiers, and it became so loud that the Colonel had to pause for a moment before he could continue.

After a tense minute, the camp became quiet enough for the Colonel to continue speaking. "The king _is_ issuing a pardon to any and all rebels who lay down their arms", he paused again, sighing deeply. "So anyone who wants to leave: now would be the time". Alfred half-expected most of the troops to up and walk out of the camp right there, but to his shock, no one moved. They didn't even talk, or shuffle their feet. They just stood there and stared back at the Colonel.

"If you actually expect us to leave, sir", began a voice respectfully, and Alfred looked up, realizing that it was Billy, "Then you're sorely mistaken".

The Colonel smiled, clearly just as surprised as Alfred was. "Well, in that case", he said, sounding far more cheerful now, "Let's do something that will make those British lap-dogs regret ever putting up a fight". The soldiers cheered and hollered, raising their caps in the air.

"It's time to take back Boston. But to do that", he said, quieter, so that the soldiers had to lean in to hear him properly, "We need Bunker Hill".

And suddenly, as if by magic adrenaline pixie dust, a half an hour had passed, and Alfred was sneaking through the forest just outside of Boston towards said hill. It was a wondrously strategic location, as it would give anyone who claimed it a significant height advantage over the rest of the city, and the ability to bombard the enemy from above. Both the British and Continentals had been looking to claim it for months. But no one had had the courage to try.

Until now. Tonight, that was all going to change. Behind the soldiers a supply train stocked with lumber and digging materials. They were going to entrench themselves into the side of the hill so that, with any luck, the British soldiers would be sitting ducks that could be picked off one by one while the Continentals would remain relatively unharmed in their trenches.

They reached the hill when the moon had risen high in the black sky, big and ominous. Alfred's eyes were beginning to itch from lack of sleep, he would have loved to be back at camp sleeping, after a warm meal, of course, right about now, but there was work to be done, and this war certainly wouldn't be won by sitting on their asses.

Carter, being frankly small and puny, as it was, was having some trouble carrying his heavy knapsack up the tall hill. He breathed heavily, and with one hand wiped away the sweat from his brow that twinkled in the starlight, though the night was cold. "Do you need some help with that?" Alfred asked, a bit pained from watching the boy struggle.

"No", Carter spat, hoisting the knapsack higher. "I'm fine". He gritted his teeth and just kept right on going. Alfred shook his head in disbelief. That kid may have been a rich pansy, but he was certainly determined.

For the whole night they worked digging trenches into the side of the hill, strengthening them with the logs. Sometime around five in the morning they got to have a break to drink some water and eat a hard biscuit, but other than that, they went non-stop until morning. So by the time the sky began to glow a hazy gray with the promise of morning, their trenches stretched halfway around the hill.

"All right", the Colonel began as ammo was passed out, "Our supplies are severely limited". He was right, Alfred only had fifteen bullets, and some weren't even the right size for his gun.

"In just a minute, the British are going to realize we're here, and they will not rest until this hill is theirs", Alfred, Billy, and Carter, who were sitting in the trench next to him, lowered their heads solemnly, along with the rest of the soldiers. They came upon the realization that not everyone was coming back after this. "So", the Colonel concluded lamely, "Don't ... just don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes". He paused, and Alfred saw that he was just as scared as the rest of them. "Good luck".

McNally, one of the soldiers near Alfred, the Irishman, began to pray. Billy stared off into the distance. Carter just shook his head. He turned to Alfred. "Well, Alfred. It was nice knowin' ya".

"Same to you, Carter", he said quietly, holding out his hand.

Carter crinkled his nose. "No. Carter's my father. Please, call me Ka—uh, Thomas". He took his hand, and they shook.

Nodding, Alfred smiled nervously. "Alright then, Thomas. I'll see you on the other side".

Just then, they heard a rumble from the bottom of the hill. Alfred poked his head over the side of the trench, and his eyes grew wide. For down below, a legion of redcoated soldiers were rolling cannons into place. There was no doubt about it: the British were coming.

* * *

The cannons began to fire a few minutes later. They started slowly, one or two cannonballs flying overhead to probe their defenses, each one accompanied by a loud booming noise and a puff of smoke. But the trenches held. There were no screams or sounds of bludgeoned bodies. However, when they saw that these were in fact giant metal balls that could in fact, kill a man, some of the soldiers in Alfred's trench began to panic. Some muttered curse words or things that sounded awfully like having "not signed up for this", but most just stared grimly at the dirt wall a few inches from their faces, which were slowly being drained of all color with every boom.

After a few minutes, the cannon fire ceased. "What are they doing?" Asked McNally, who was busy cracking his knuckles in an attempt to relieve tension. It obviously wasn't working. His eyes swiveled back and forth, and he visibly shook. "Why don't they attack us?"

No one answered him. No one _had_ an answer. They were all trying not to think about the death that awaited them just outside of that trench. Alfred didn't trust himself to speak. His throat seemed to be glued shut. "Well?" McNally demanded of them, his voice rising. "What are you waiting for, you bastards?" But all was dead silent. Not even the wind blew over the hill, and the summer air was hot and still.

"I can't take this", McNally squeaked, "I've got to look".

He began to stand up. "No, wait!" Alfred hissed, reaching out to grab his arm, but it was already too late. An ear-shattering boom rang out from the bottom of the hill, and after a rush of wind and a sickening crack, Alfred's face was covered in brain matter and he was holding onto the end of a severed arm. The cannonball continued on its way through the air, taking the top half of McNally with it.

Thomas and Billy, who had both been nearest to the scene, were both covered in blood and guts. The three of them stared at each other for a minute. Thomas' mouth stretched into a wide 'o'. All Alfred could do was stare at the hand he was holding that had been attached to a human being just a split second before.

Billy was the first to recover. "Holy shit", he whispered as he wiped blood out of his eyes. That broke the spell. Alfred dropped the arm, which bounced limply as it hit the dirt. Thomas blinked a few times, then wiped the gore off of his face with his sleeve. The cannons started up again.

"Let's get this out of here", Thomas suggested over the roar of the cannons, pointing to the lower torso of McNally, which lay next to the arm. Alfred and Billy nodded, and together, for none of them really wanted to touch the body of their fallen comrade, they tossed it out of the trench.

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. "I think I would have barfed if I had to look at _that_ for any longer". No one said anything after that, but he could tell by the green shade of Billy's face that he wasn't the only one.

The cannon fire held up for several hours, and Alfred was afraid that he would go deaf from the constant explosions from down the hill that barraged his senses. That is, if he could have _actually gone_ deaf. No one talked, there was too much noise to do much of that anyway, but it slowly dawned on Alfred how serious this all was. He had acted all high and mighty before, like only _he_ knew how major this war was, what the stakes were. He now discovered that he had been just as clueless as the rest of them. People _died_ in wars. Actually died. People die when they are killed (2). That should have been obvious, but it had taken a cannon to the face of someone two feet in front of him for it to really hit home. Wow, that was a really insensitive pun. Too soon? Yeah, two minutes might be just a little too soon.

By the time the British ran out of large metal things to toss at them, the sun was high in the sky, and beat down upon the men in the trenches. There had only been a few casualties, at least, as far as Alfred was aware—communication certainly wasn't stellar in the trenches. Their trenches had worked. But now came the hard part. The _bloody_ part.

The soldiers waited with baited breath as the hill lay silent. Alfred closed his eyes, put a hand to his chest where he'd stashed his eagle feather under his uniform. He felt like he need any luck it could have provided. Billy just shook his head back and forth repeatedly like a broken cuckoo clock.

Thomas readied his rifle, clutching it like it was a teddy bear or a baby blanket, something important. Maybe it was. It was his own rifle back from wherever he came from. It wasn't _technically_ up to military standards, he shouldn't have been allowed to wield it on the battlefield, but there were a lot of soldiers, which meant that there needed to be a lot of weapons. The musket that Thomas would have had could now be used by someone else, so the higher-ups turned a blind eye. And it wasn't as if Alfred was going to say anything. Thomas was even more deadly proficient with this simple hunting rifle than any of the standard issue muskets.

"Get ready", shouted a voice from somewhere up the hill who must have been the Colonel. Alfred and Billy readied their own guns. The three of them glanced at each other, each wore an identical expression of grim determination, but their eyes gave away the fear behind them. Thomas and Billy were both just as scared as Alfred was. That gave him a little comfort. He wasn't alone in this respect. He really hoped that the two of them would make it out of this alive.

A few minutes of tension-gripped silence filled the air. Then, suddenly, Alfred began to hear noises from down the hill. It sounded like marching. Alfred's breath caught in his throat. They really _were_ coming now. "Into positions", shouted the Colonel, and the soldiers poked their head up just far enough above the edge of the trench to aim.

Alfred almost sunk right back down again. A horde of Redcoats were marching towards them, closing the distance between them with every second. But all Alfred could do was wait. Wait for them to get close enough that he could see the whites of their eyes, just as the Colonel had said. He watched carefully, just waiting, and with a slight twinge of satisfaction he saw that they looked just as terrified as Alfred felt.

"Fire!" Shouted the Colonel, and all hell broke loose. Alfred had fifteen bullets. Only fifteen. He had to be careful with them. He shot once, a puff of steam rising from his musket. Reloaded.

Twice, three time he fired blindly into the Redcoats' ranks, and to his surprise, they began to fall. The British soldiers were completely unprotected, practically sitting ducks, and he was killing them. Later, Alfred would relive this moment in his head a thousand times, would see the faces of the soldiers as they fell, twisted with pain, and it would hurt, but at that moment, they were simply red, moving targets.

The fourth bullet didn't quite fit into the barrel correctly, so Alfred had to smash it into the right shape with a hammer while Billy and Thomas covered him. Then he was up and shooting again, and his heart leapt as he saw just how much closer the mass of red was. Before he knew what was happening he had fired six more times. But they just _kept coming_. They were no more than two-hundred yards away now.

Eleven. Reload. Twelve. Reload. He saw one soldier fall as a direct consequence of him pulling the trigger. Thirteen. Billy ducked as a bullet whizzed past his head, and the tip of his ear began to bleed. He cursed loudly. Fourteen. They were almost upon them now, close enough to see the points of their bayonets glisten in the sunlight. But they just. Kept. Coming.

Alfred sweated as he reloaded again. This was his last bullet. Better make it count. A Redcoat was running towards him, only a few feet away. Alfred aimed, fired. But the soldier kept running. Alfred panicked. He was all out of bullets. The soldier reached the edge of the trench, murder in his eyes. His bayonet glimmered menacingly, and then there was only pain. Alfred couldn't breathe. Red began to block his vision.

Then a shot was fired, and the soldier fell back, off of Alfred and into the trench below. And after that, there was only silence...

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) This was one of the major problems the Continentals faced towards the beginning of the war: how to get their hands on enough ammunition and gun-powder to cover thousands of soldiers. Eventually they were able to capture some forts with some already stocked and kick-start their industry enough that this was less of an issue later in the war.

(2) Okay, this one isn't _actually_ a historical note, but I had to put it in there, the temptation was too strong. For those of you who don't get the reference, just look up the phrase "People die when they are killed", and you'll find out. Even though I'm usually a subs over dubs person (except where Hetalia is concerned, that dub rocks!) I just love the hilarity of that meme. Sorry, I'll stop interrupting now.

* * *

 _Whoo! That was kind of insane. I couldn't even believe that_ I _was writing it half of the time. Anyway, see you guys next time!_


	12. The Secret Revealed

_Hello again! I just got back from Boston, for those of you who haven't checked the Livejournal, and I've also got some pictures from the trip up there. It was super fun because so much of this story took place in Boston, so it was awesome to actually go there._

 _Anyway, I've been reading a lot of H. P. Lovecraft lately, so I think it might have crept into this chapter a little. Haha. Enjoy._

* * *

Chapter Eleven

The Secret Revealed

Arthur was in trouble, the battle at Bunker Hill had proved that much. He simply couldn't believe how quickly the rebels were able to mobilize and entrench themselves into that hill. It was almost inhuman. Knowing Alfred, and just how likely it was that he had been _fighting_ in those trenches, it probably was.

Technically, victory had ultimately gone to the British with their superior numbers, the hill was there's, but it didn't feel like much of a victory to Arthur. Three quarters of his army was dead. That had hurt. A lot. He'd even been all of the way back in England when it had happened, and he'd _still_ felt it. He'd been sleeping. It was the middle of the night when the sudden fear and pain of dying men had woken him, so intense that he'd jumped out of bed and reached for his gun. It had only become apparent a few weeks later what had happened.

They'd finally received the news of the battle after days and weeks of worried speculation as to what could have caused such an awful pain, the likes of which he hadn't felt for years. But yep, hundreds of his people dying over the course of two hours ought to do it. It had been so intense that not even the gentle lull of gin could take it away. The effects had lingered for days after.

One thing, however, was certain: this little "rebellion" was a lot more serious than he'd originally thought. Sure, they had won right as rain, the Continentals eventually proving themselves cowards when they began to lose numbers, but any force that could take out most of his army was no rebellion, it was a full-blown revolution, and if he couldn't put it down quickly and efficiently, if he couldn't keep one stubborn, adolescent brat in his place, then he would be the laughingstock of Europe. No one would be afraid of him anymore.

Arthur would no longer be Britain the Conqueror, or Britain the Destroyer, or even Britain the Empire. He'd be Britain, the man who was defeated by a child. Clearly, something had to be done.

This revolution had to be quelled quickly and quietly. The problem was that he couldn't do it alone. His large, glorious army was certainly a fighting force to behold, but _because_ of its immense size, to forever to mobilize. And being as old as Arthur was, that was saying a lot. He simply didn't have enough ships or supplies to transport all of his soldiers across the Atlantic in time.

He'd asked Antonio first, who had, of course, laughed in his face. Though they certainly hadn't been on the best of terms as of late—Seven Years War, oops—he figured that maybe he could have steered his hatred towards the Americans and away from himself, but alas, to no avail. Then he'd tried Roderich and Eliza, but both of their militaries were toast after the Austrian Succession thirty years previously (1), which seemed like plenty of time to rebuild your military to Arthur, but meh, Austrians are wimps.

Country after country he tried, but it was becoming more and more apparent that he'd alienated anyone who could have possibly helped him. So it was with great hesitation that he found himself explaining his situation to the last Nation he'd ever want to. Well, maybe second to last, Francis was undeniably first, but _he_ slid into an extremely close second.

" _Da_ *", Ivan said, nodding, "You really have gotten yourself into pickle". He smiled down at Arthur in that vaguely unnerving way of his. Arthur would admit that he certainly wasn't tall by anyone's standards, but Ivan towered over him like a bloody giant. And then there was that strange … well _aura_ was the only way he could really describe it, that surrounded the man. It made Arthur's skin crawl just to be near him and he wasn't the only one. Most Nations tended to maintain a polite distance from the Great Russia. An _overly_ polite distance. He may have been a strange, even _psychotic_ bloke if the rumors were true, but he was also the Nation of the biggest country in the world. An ally like that could very well change the course of a war. That was exactly what Arthur needed at the moment.

So he swallowed his fear and tried to smile back, though he was pretty sure that he only managed a weak sort of grimace. "Which is exactly why I need your help", he said as the two of them walked down a corridor with large open windows, highlighting the falling snow outside. "Your soldiers are the best in the business". That wasn't exactly true, Arthur held the opinion that his own soldiers were the best, but Ivan's army certainly wasn't a force to reckon with, and Arthur found that flattery could usually get one anywhere.

"So what you are telling me is that you would like to hire my soldiers as mercenaries? (2)" Ivan stared at the window at the flurry of white beyond, thinking. He almost had him, Arthur could feel it. The money was too good for anyone to pass up.

"Exactly", he said, coming to stand besides him. "What do you say?"

Ivan sighed. "I would like very much to help you, I really would, but it is sadly not my decision to make".

Ah, of course, the Empress, Catherine. He'd almost forgotten about her. Arthur often found that he forgot about monarchs that were not his own. In the good old days, Nations had often run their kingdoms themselves, often as their immortal leader; Arthur remembered his own stint as King of the Britons (3). But _that_ was something that he'd rather not repeat. His kinghood had ended with blood everywhere and existential crisis' left and right. Over time, he and the other Nations had discovered that it was much easier to have someone else run your country for you, but he still sometimes found it annoying to have to defer to their monarchs for every little matter of politics, almost like having a nanny to watch over their every move.

"I apologize for my tardiness", speak of the devil, for coming down the corridor was a regal figure with long brown hair. Ivan perked up as soon as he heard her. He looked up and smiled, a real one this time, not one of his strange half-smiles.

After kissing her on the cheek in greeting, and lingering a little longer than was strictly necessary, Arthur couldn't help but notice, Ivan turned back to him. "May I introduce the Empress of Russia, Catherine II".

Arthur kneeled down and kissed her hand. "I've heard tales of your beauty, my lady", he said, smirking a bit in that dastardly pirate-esce way that never failed to drive the ladies wild, "But now I can see that they don't do you justice".

Catherine tittered a bit at that. "Hello to you, as well, _Angliya*"_ , she smiled as he got to his feet. "You British _gospoda_ * certainly know how to flatter a woman (4)".

"We were just discussing the impending war in America", Ivan stepped in, maybe a little jealous of Arthur's obviously irresistible charm. But with him, you never could tell. He was impossible to read.

"Ah, yes", said Catherine, straightening up, all business now. "You have come to discuss aid for the revolution".

"Well", Arthur tried to shrug it off, "It's not so much of a revolution as just a little rebellion, that's all", he assured them. "Everyone goes through their phases. We both did", he nodded towards Ivan, "He'll come around sooner or later. I just need a little extra muscle to make sure he does".

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew that he'd said the wrong thing. Catherine and Ivan glanced at each other meaningfully. "They have a _Natsiya*_?" Catherine asked.

"Well, they uh … Yes", Arthur sighed, "They do"

"That changes things", said Ivan, "This is why you want my help, da? They have a Nation, an _America_ , this makes it clear that they could very well win this war and become independent". Catherine shook her head. He was losing them, this wasn't good.

Arthur slumped, losing his previous bravado. "That … that is true, but—"

Catherine shook her head. "I am sorry, Arthur, but I cannot willingly put my soldiers into a battle that I know they will not win".

And so the meeting, or at least what was supposed to be the beginning of a much _longer_ meeting, ended quite abruptly. Catherine quickly departed, citing queenly duties as her excuse, but Ivan lingered just a little longer. To be honest, he looked a little sorry for Arthur, which ticked him off. He didn't need anyone's sympathy, least of all _his_. "Tell me", Ivan said apologetically, "What is this new _Natsiya's_ name?"

Arthur sighed deeply. He almost couldn't spit the word out.

"Alfred".

* * *

It was dark here, quiet. The blackness surrounded Alfred like a warm blanket, and for once, nothing was happening, no one was trying to kill him, and so he just floated through the ocean of black in the little rowboat of his mind. He savored it, this oddly comforting silence, away from the cannon fire and screamed of dying men.

 _It wasn't just the Redcoats who were red now. Everyone was covered from head to toe in gooey, dripping red, and there was a mound of innocent people lying dead under Alfred's boots. Slowly, he came upon the realization that he had killed them, and that he was smiling._

But all was black and silent once more, the battlefield growing more and more distant with each passing moment. Alfred relaxed again, sinking back into the arms of oblivion.

 _There were so many, so many bodies, some dead, some moaning in agony, wishing that they were dead. And Alfred felt it all, the pain racked through him and soon he felt like he would die. He would like to die just as much as the rest of them. The soldiers screamed from their dead, unhinged jaws and his skull reverberated with their pleads. He could have saved them, they could be alive right now, home with their families, if only he had kept in his_ fucking _place, continued being a tiny colony under the foot of an empire._

Yes, he could do that, he was sure of it. He could go back to being a simply, small assorted bunch of colonies living peacefully with his big brother, because surely now he must be dead. He couldn't count how many times he'd wished for the end but simply couldn't be erased from this world. But now a miracle had happened. Soon, he would open his eyes and Big Brother England would be standing there to take him home.

 _And the dead heap of soldiers all pointed with their rotten, skeletal fingers towards a river of red that ran down the hill, and bade him to look into its depths. They smiled cruelly, and laughed, knowing just what he would see. Malevolence filled their empty, dead eyes, and they waited patiently. They had all of the time in the world after all._

Soon it would come, the end was nigh. Soon all of the bloodshed and pain and fear would end. Soon his brother, after all of this time, after all of his waiting and wondering and hoping and even praying, soon he would come home.

 _Alfred looked down into the murky depths of the boiling river, and screamed, for it was not his face that stared back at him at all, but one with green eyes and disheveled flax hair. 'Look what you've become' said his reflection, staring back at him with pity in its eyes. 'You've become a killer, just like your brother'._

"AHHHHHH!" Alfred screamed, and shot up into a sitting position. He breathed heavily as he realized that it had all just been a dream. He hadn't really killed all of those people, there was no river of blood, and if he had a mirror he would see his own blue eyes staring back at him. None of that had actually happened. He gasped in more air, trying to stop his heart from beating quite as quickly.

Flopping back down onto the hard ground again, Alfred looked up at the ceiling, wondering just where exactly he was. The last thing he remembered was the trenches, and he'd been stabbed and … Ow, he didn't want to think about that. He was in a small room made of wood logs, slightly makeshift, but wasn't everything that the Continentals like that? A few men lay on the hard-packed dirt ground, moaning or just lying still. The firelight from the hearth illuminated their pale faces, each and every one of them twisted with some kind of pain. He must have been in the infirmary.

Alfred shivered. It was cold, and his shirt had been removed at some point, probably to get at stab wound that ran through his chest, which was now bandaged tightly with cotton. The only other source of warmth he had was a thin, gray blanket that had up until a second ago been on top of him. But if his coat was gone, where was his feather? It had been. Oh no, it had been in the pocket which had gotten stabbed by the Redcoat's bayonet. No, he was sure that his feather must be fine. It was probably still in his coat pocket. But those bayonets! They didn't look very sharp, but man did they sting. Luckily his wound must be healed by now, he didn't feel any pain anymore.

But Alfred's eyes grew wide as he realized just what that meant. Any second now, someone was going to come in, see that he was awake, and want to check on his wound, which of course wasn't there anymore. Any ordinary man would have died after getting stabbed in the chest, no exceptions, let alone be completely healed in … how long had he been out? He had no idea, but it couldn't have been that long.

They would try to kill him. They would call him "demon" and hang him by his neck until his throat was bruised and it hurt to even breathe, and then when _that_ didn't kill him, they would bury him in a hole in the ground and he'd have to wait there in the dirt with the worms and darkness until they left so he could dig himself out. He had to get out of here, had to get as far away as he could before—

"Doc! Hey Doc!" Shouted a voice from the far side of the room, and Alfred looked up to see Billy sitting on a bench against the wall, his arm in a sling, staring back at him "He's awake!" Billy, Billy. Why did you have to do that? Now, because of his hastiness, he was going to hate Alfred's guts in a few seconds. He'd _liked_ Billy, he was a cool guy. But he had nowhere to go now, not with Billy sitting right there, so he stayed put. Besides, it would look even worse if he ran.

The doctor, whose name Alfred knew to be Benson, was a rather young, flustered-looking man. He stumbled into the room a second after Billy shouted. "Really?" He asked, then looked over to where Alfred was laying towards the center of the room. "Well, I'll be damned".

They both approached him, Benson having to step gingerly over a few of the wounded men. Alfred began to sweat. Act natural. What would a normal soldier who had just practically come back from the dead say right now? "Do you know where my feather is?" He asked, coughing slightly.

That was _not_ what he had originally intended to say, but the words had ust sort of bubbled out of their own accord. Oh well, it would have to do. "Sorry, what?" asked Benson, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"My eagle feather", said Alfred, genuinely concerned, "It was in my coat".

"Oh", the doctor said quietly. Billy looked down. Alfred's heart dropped in his chest. "When you … the bayonet, it—" he struggled, "It … went right through it".

"Oh", Alfred echoed. He should be feeling sad right now, but he just felt numb. It didn't quite seem real. He was being a bit dramatic, sure—which as an aside, by now you've probably realized that all Nations are prone to being—but the feather had been the one thing, the one permanent object that had been with him for all of this time. It had been his one connection with a past that he could never gone back to, but sorely wished he could. It was like losing a friend.

"We should … check on your wound", Benson said, trying to break the awkward silence that had fallen over the room. Alfred didn't refuse, or struggle, there was no point. The truth was going to come out sooner or later, he supposed, it was just a little sooner than he'd hoped. Billy went back over to his bench, wincing a bit as his arm moved in its sling.

The doctor began to unravel the bandage, and Alfred prayed that it looked worse than it really was, but alas, no such luck. Though blood and other substances that Alfred would rather not think about were crusted around the area where the wound had been, the actual injury was of course completely healed.

"H-how—" Benson began, staring somewhat awkwardly at Alfred's chest. "You … you were stabbed clean through! You're _lung was punctured_. I was surprised enough that you were still alive but this is—" Alfred waited for the inevitable. Inhuman. Horrible. An abomination. And then he would ask "What are you?" And Alfred wouldn't be able to explain it. He would try, and fail, and then the mob would come. He could already hear them yelling.

But to his surprise, the doctor _didn't_ continue with any of those words. "—Incredible", he finished instead, and Alfred did a double take. What? Why did Benson not cower in fear or call the mob? Was he still dreaming? "My dear boy: _who_ are you?"

"I—" Alfred sputtered, unsure of how to respond. "I'm Alfred. Alfred Jones".

The doctor laughed. "I know _that_ ", he said, "It's just so impossible for someone to survive a wound like this, let alone heal so quickly. You must be incredibly special".

Alfred knew now that there was only one way he could respond now. If there was one person who would believe him, it was this batshit-crazy doctor who thought that he was interesting rather than something to be feared. Maybe he would _actually_ believe him. And it was finally time to tell someone the truth of it all. "I'm—" he began.

"He's America", Billy finished for him.

"What?" Benson asked, confused.

"How did _you_ know?" Alfred asked at the same time, his jaw agape. That wasn't possible, couldn't be. No one knew about Nations except their leaders, which Alfred currently had none of, and the Nations themselves.

Billy went on to explain how he was technically the descendant of royalty, and how his great-grandfather Silas Carmichael had taken the secret with him when he'd come to America from over the sea. He'd told the secret to his son, who'd told the secret to his son, who told it to Billy. "And you didn't tell _me?_ " Asked Alfred, exasperated. He had known who he was the entire time they'd known each other.

Billy just shrugged. "It never came up".

"I'm sorry", Benson, whom Alfred had forgotten was there, interjected, "But you've both lost me".

So then they told the doctor about Nations, and Billy confirmed everything. Benson listened to every word, enraptured. Alfred would say afterward that if the doctor had lived a hundred years later, he probably would have been one of those mad scientists who experimented on innocent people for kicks. He was _really_ glad he hadn't lived a hundred years later.

* * *

It was, of course, necessary for General Washington to be informed of this new development. He had just recently been named head of the Continental Army after Bunker Hill, when everyone involved had begun to realize just how serious this conflict was becoming. It wasn't just a small fist-fight between brothers now, now the guns were coming out, and people were getting hurt. Word had come back to the camp just a few days later that he wanted to meet with Alfred in person, and that he would arrive within the week. Alfred was terribly nervous about it, but all that he could really do was wait.

Both Billy and Thomas had come out of the battle relatively unscathed, in the former's case just a fractured arm and a missing chunk of his ear—"It makes me look tough", he said—and in the latter's a bruised eye from where the recoil of his gun had hit him. Apparently he had shot the soldier who stabbed Alfred, but in his hurry had held the gun too close to his face when he fired. "I'm beginning to discover that I'm not very good under pressure", he admitted, shrugging.

When he was finally allowed to leave the makeshift infirmary, Benson the doctor had to double and triple check to make sure that Alfred was in good health despite his repeated statements of feeling "Just fine, doc", Alfred found the previously noisy and raucous camp oddly subdued. The soldiers walked here and there with nary a word to each other when they could help it, and looking furtively over their shoulders every few minutes, as if afraid that the British were going to jump out of the bushes. It seemed as if the whole platoon had entered an extended state of shell-shock, and the oppressive air slowly began to have an effect on Alfred as well, who began to become conscious that if he hadn't been who he was, if he had been a normal man fighting in those trenches, then he would be dead.

And a small part of him was dead, in a way. War changes people. It would take him something along the lines of another hundred years to really fully appreciate that. And his feather, that one precious anchor in his life, was gone, destroyed, and although it had been a purely inanimate object, he mourned it as if it were a lifelong friend. It had been, in a way. He had lost his sister all over again.

The one distraction he had were thoughts of just what would happen when General Washington arrived. Would he send Alfred away, deem him dangerous? Or would he do the opposite, something far worse, make him out to be someone more important than he was? He knew that he was _America_ , but he really didn't feel important, and felt uncomfortable with the idea that someone might see him as such. Chalk it up to a life spent avoiding the spotlight, trying his damndest to disappear, but for Alfred, attention was his worst fear.

It was far easier to worry about that than of lost friends, however, so Alfred worried about it until a few days later he saw a small escort ride into camp, and then he caught his first glimpse of Washington. He looked tall atop his horse, with a serious face and thin nose. He didn't notice Alfred, and Alfred didn't make a spectacle of himself in return. No one except him and the doctor knew why Washington was really here, and although maybe a few men would take his tale with a level head, but the common soldiers would have lynched him before sundown. So their meeting was of the utmost secrecy.

"Here", said Benson, stopping him before Alfred could enter the quarters set aside for Washington, "Take this". He tossed Alfred a blue coat, one like that which the officers wore, the color of the Continentals. "Can't have our Nation going in there looking all scruffy now, can we?"

Alfred smiled grimly, but couldn't force his mouth open, his nerves having long since sealed it shut. Benson laughed. "What's the matter? You look like you're about be burned at the stake". Alfred crinckled his eyebrows together. "Sorry", said Benson, "That was a little insensitive, wasn't it?" Alfred snorted in response.

"Anyway", he continued, "You'll be just fine. He's not so bad, Washington. A little serious for my taste, not much humor there, but he's alright". Alfred pulled his arms through the sleeves of the coat, which actually fit him pretty well. If he'd had a mirror, he would have seen that he looked rather dashing, and that might have made him feel a little less nervous, but he had no mirror. And all that he could really think about anyway was how much of a easy target he would be right now with the bright blue on. That shocked him a bit. He really _was_ becoming a soldier.

The coat was sort of a remnant of the old European style of war, with pride and chivalry and all of that guff which made it all seem like a big game. It wasn't a game, no matter how much they tried. What kind of sick game had the players putting real men's lives on the table, anyway?

Needless to say, Alfred felt extremely uncomfortable with how _natural_ it felt to have that coat around his shoulders as he approached the door to Washington's quarters, but he hoped that while not the best symbol for him to be wearing, hopefully it would make him look a bit more impressive. He took a deep breath, and knocked, a little more timidly than he'd meant to. There was a slight pause, the silence lay thick and heavy, but then from the depths of the chamber came a voice. "Yes?" It asked. "Come in".

Alfred walked hesitantly into a small, dark room with a desk towards the back, the thin windows casting a weak light on it. Though Washington had only been here for hours at most, the desk was already obscured by a mound of papers. In fact, so extensive was the pile that several maps had fallen off and onto the floor where they lay, discarded.

The man behind the desk, already working though he was still wearing a long, black overcoat, looked up at the sound of the door creaking open. "Hmm", he said simply, glancing Alfred over, sizing him up, a stern frown on his face. "And you must be Alfred Jones".

"Y-yes sir", said Alfred, trying his hardest, and failing, to not stutter. The general stood and broke into a small smile. He held out his hand, and Alfred took it.

"Come now, Private Jones", he said slowly, "You are apparently America personified. If anything, _I_ should be nervous to meet _you_ ".

"I'm not nervous", said Alfred, a little too quickly, and Washington chuckled. "And I'm not so terribly important, sir", he ran a hand through his hair, trying to expel some of the nervousness that he had just denied having. "Apparently, you're the man who's going to make sure I actually become a real country at all. I'd say that's pretty important".

Washington grimaced. "Don't remind me. I'm under enough pressure as it is". He shook himself then, and changed the subject. "But we aren't here to talk about me", he said. "Tell me something, Jones: The fact that you _are_ America and not 'Massachusetts' or 'Virginia' proves that we're to become one country someday, doesn't it? But", he added, seeing the expression on Alfred's face, "You don't seem so sure".

"I don't really know, sir", said Alfred, which was true. He really had no idea why he was America and not just one colony, and it certainly didn't mean that they should just assume they would win the war. "I don't really know anything. I've only known one other Nation, sir, and he probably wasn't the best example".

"Who was he?" Washington asked, and then, watching as Alfred's face became clouded over, "There's no need to bring back old memories".

Alfred shook himself. "No, no. It's fine. His name was, _is_ , Arthur Kirkland." He paused, took a deep breath. "He's Britain".

Washington was very curious on the subject of Nations, and their exact nature, and Alfred tried to fill him in to the best of his ability. Although, to be honest, Alfred was certainly no expert. He had mostly learned from experience, and what he _did_ hear was from someone who was also no expert.

Soon, however, Washington had to get back to work. It must have been a hard job, being the commander of an army. Alfred didn't envy him. But before he left, Washington stopped him. "Oh, hold on", he said, "I almost didn't mention the _actual_ reason I called in for". Alfred turned back. "I don't really know typical protocol for Nations", he began, "But I could make you a Captain, or a Major if you wanted".

The first thought in Alfred's mind went something along the lines of _No nononononono do not want do not want_ , but he tried to actually consider it for a moment. From what he'd heard from Arthur, Nations _did_ often hold office in the military, but for the older ones it made sense. They had extensive knowledge of military strategy and hundreds of years of experience on the battlefield, which Alfred had none of. He was just as new to the whole thing as the rest of them. He wouldn't be much use as the head of some platoon. It would be too much responsibility.

"I know that it's not really common practice", if they even _had_ a common practice, "But I think I'd like to stay where I am. I..." He paused, "I don't really feel like sending men to their deaths, sir". He didn't mean it harshly, but Washington frowned as he opened the door to leave.

"I suppose that is just a responsibility that some of us have to bear".

On the way back across the camp, the sun setting behind the tents, he ran into Benson, who appeared to have been waiting for him. "How did it go?" He asked.

"I'm … not really supposed to talk about it", said Alfred. That was a lie, he wasn't actually bound by any such vow of secrecy, but he just wanted to go to bed. "Do you want your coat back?" He asked the doctor.

He shook his head. "You keep it", he said, "It looks better on you anyway".

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) The War of Austrian Succession was this big blow-out between Prussia, France, and Spain (Origin of the Bad Touch Trio yo!) and most of the other powers of Europe over Maria Theresa's ascension to the Austrian throne. Of course, being Austrians, they didn't have a terribly strong military, and relied on Hungary's help to finish the war.

(2) This was a pretty common practice in Europe at the time. When money was tight, why the hell not?

(3) Why yes, yes I did just say that Arthur is King Arthur. Deal with it.

(4) Actually, Catherine the Great was known for (among many other things, of course) taking many, _many_ lovers after the death of her husband. Often she gave them land and fancy titles as well.

* * *

 **Here is Russian Translations, Da?:**

 _Da_ – Yes

 _Angliya –_ England

 _Gospoda –_ Gentlemen

 _Natsiya –_ Nation

* * *

 _Hopefully there will be no more schedule interruptions for the rest of the run. It's looking to be about eighteen chapters plus an epilogue, so there's still about two months of writing left *crying*. No, but after these next two chapters, I'll be in the home stretch, and will finally get to write all of those scenes that I envisioned at the start. I'm excited. See you all next week!_


	13. The River

_Hello, everyone. Not much to say this week. The monster's whipping me into cowed submission. Hahaha. No, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, we're closing in on the ending, people!_

 _Also, school ends for me next week, so either I'll be more on top of this story, or a lot less. We'll see._

* * *

Chapter Twelve

The River

December 20th, 1776

 _What a way to spend Christmas_ , Alfred thought as he trudged through the thick snow, which was almost up to his knees. The soldiers glanced furtively at each other, each wearing an identical mask of fear and exhaustion. The British and their Hessian allies (1) had been chasing them across New York ever since they lost the city a few months ago, and the Continentals were beginning to take casualties from the constant onslaught.

The beginning of the year had been everything Alfred could have hoped for. They had recaptured Boston from right under the British's noses. But since then, morale had only fallen. The level of insubordination was becoming unbearable, with desertions and unplanned retreats severely common. The Redcoats had beaten them time and time again, forcing them to abandon New York. Of course, many of the men in service here had only been so for less than a year, because the enlistment time of the old army had expired. So a new militia had to be raised, which took time, and money, and had put them out of the war for a few months (2)

Alfred had, of course, stayed on for another term. He didn't have anything to go back to. No family, or home really, and no fear for the loss of life. That was quickly proving practically impossible for him to lose.

These new soldiers had proven even more cowardly and uncouth than the last bunch. At least he could still talk to Thomas and Billy, who had both also stayed on. He didn't know their exact reasoning for staying, he'd never really asked, and Thomas if not so much Billy always skirted the question when his past came up. They had come to an unspoken understanding that none of them had anything to go back for. So they stuck together and formed the unofficial "Lonely Bastards" club.

Alfred often complained to them about the new troops, and how desperately he wished for someone to come along and inspire the troops to act like a _real, proper_ army. Sure, General Washington was pretty cool, but it simply wasn't enough. Washington was one of them, an American just like everyone else. He didn't inspire the fear and respect that he should. But honestly, he couldn't understand why they couldn't act like a real army _without_ help.

"Not everyone lives and breathes patriotism like you do, Alfred", Thomas commented after an exceptionally long rant on Alfred's part. Billy snorted, and Alfred couldn't help but smile. Thomas still had no idea who Alfred was, and, honestly, probably never would. Alfred honestly didn't how he would react to the news that he was an immortal personification of, the as-of-yet-not-an-actual-country, America, and he certainly didn't want to find out. He had lost far too many friends that way.

But he digressed. The Continentals' situation had become more and more dire as winter approached. How long could they keep running like this before the British caught up to them for real? Not for much longer, was the answer. Alfred had never been so cold in his life, which was certainly saying something, and it seemed as if he'd never be warm again. His feet in their leather boots had long since gone numb, but he was one of the lucky ones. Many of the soldiers didn't have shoes at all. He half-expected that the British were able to track them so efficiently because of the bloody footprints that they left in the deep snow.

They were also very quickly running out of food and other supplies. Slowly, they were going to waste away. Not that they really had any time to eat, anyway. They were barely able to make camp and get a few hours of shuteye before the British were right on their tails again. Alfred was currently running on two hours of sleep and three hard biscuits in the last forty-eight hours. By now though, it seemed as if all signal to his brain had ceased, and now there was only the endless walking through the deep, white forests.

There was a tiny glimmer of hope on the horizon, however, because New Jersey was only about a day away. If they could just manage to make it to the river and cross over to the other bank before the British did, then they could set up camp on the other side and rest. Because even the British with their far superior numbers couldn't hope to cross the river without being filled with bullets. It would create a standoff of sorts, but it would give the Continentals some much needed time to rest and come up with a proper plan.

So Alfred just kept trudging along, keeping the image of a warm meal and bed in his mind to keep his feet moving one in front of the other. Just as he crested the top of an exceptionally large hill, he saw a group of men walking swiftly away from the rest of the soldiers. Alfred approached them, shouting: "Where are you going, dudes?"

They looked over at him, and rolled their eyes. Alfred had a reputation in the platoon for being almost zealotically patriotic, and it appeared that it had preceded him. One of them, a man with a red face made almost violet by the cold shook his head. "We're going home", he said, and the rest of the men, about ten in all, nodded in agreement. "We've had it up to here with this 'revolution'".

"But we're almost to the river", Alfred protested, "Can't you hang on for just a few more hours?"

"If the weather stays like this, we'll never get there", the man pointed out the raging wind around them, "Besides, Collin's left foot is _black_. He needs a doctor _now._ " One of the men held up his foot in demonstration, and Alfred grimaced, looking away. He did not want to see that black, shriveled husk of a foot anymore than the next men, and it would surely be visiting him in his nightmares in the future.

"I'm sure there will be doctors at the camp. And besides, Washington can get us there quicker than what it'll take you to get home".

The men shook their heads, angry, and eyed Alfred darkly. "Washington's a nutter", the man said, "This war was lost as soon as he was put in charge".

Alfred opened his mouth to speak his mind. He wanted to tell them that Washington had a much harder job than any of them knew, and that maybe if they had at least _tried_ to be good soldiers, then they wouldn't be in this pickle at all. Maybe then, less of their comrades would be dead.

But he didn't say any of that, because then the men began to walk away and Alfred saw that nothing he could say would change their minds. He was too cold to fight anyway.

"Let them go, Al", said a voice from behind him. He turned to see Thomas standing a few feet up the hill. Alfred sighed.

"I just can't … why would you—? Argh!"

Thomas started walking again, and reached up to pat him on the shoulder as he passed. "Hang in there, buddy", he said, "This'll all turn around soon. I can feel it".

Alfred followed after him into the white, keeping pace easily with the shorter man. "I hope you're right", he said, "Or we're all dead".

* * *

The barracks at Fort Ticonderoga (3) were actually quiet for once. All of the soldiers, both British and Canadian, were out on some training exercise or another, and Matthew for one was grateful for the silence. He sat in the rather small mess hall at one of the long wood tables, his face in his hands, and did absolutely nothing.

Matthew couldn't believe how tired he was. The Americans had _finally_ given up and gone home, leaving the fort alone after another brutal siege. He still looked about sixteen, maybe seventeen years of age, but now he felt more like a hundred. He simply wasn't used to this kind of intense fighting like Arthur, who seemed to positively _thrive_ on it. Matthew couldn't handle standing by while his soldiers died in the field. Arthur took it like it was nothing, the "Glory of the British Empire" probably shielding him from those pesky things like pain and emotion. Man, that was a bitter thought. He'd been having those more and more lately...

It was just that he was so _tired_ of all of the fighting. Maybe if he put his head in the war, then he would come out blood-covered and smiling like Arthur, but really, he just wanted to be left alone. And true be told, he didn't really believe in what he was fighting for. Because, unlike Arthur, he wasn't fighting to keep anything, like a colony. He'd never even _met_ Alfred, who if Arthur was to be believed, was a spoiled little twat. But then again, this was also the man who was fond of referring to Francis as that "Wine-Guzzling Toad", so who really knew if that was the truth of it. No, he was only fighting so Arthur wouldn't get mad at him.

Which brought him to his _other_ pain in the ass, his "Big Brother". Boy, did that man have a temper on him. And he was also so terribly dramatic, whining about the weather, or the Canadians, or anything that suited his fancy, really, mostly to Matthew. Francis had done that as well, though. Maybe it was a European thing. But Francis never got angry like Arthur did. Sure, he tried to hide that searing hellpit of anger behind a wall of gentlemanly charisma, but Matthew could see right through it. This was a man who was pissed off at the world for some grievance it had caused him.

He didn't know why he was so pissed off all the time, and he hadn't bothered to ask, because frankly, he didn't want to know. Whatever was hiding in Arthur's past, it was probably best to leave it be, like a dog that you really want to pet but know that you'll get your arm chomped off if you do. Usually, he was good at keeping it under wraps, but he had on occasion blown up. He was particularly prone to do this at Matthew for no reason, at least, none that were outwardly apparent. But Matthew had his suspicions.

Sometimes he wished that Alfred, regardless of if he was actually a nice guy or not, hadn't been such an idiot and had to start a war, because it was just giving Matthew a buttload of headaches. Arthur, and the rest of the world, had largely left him alone for the ten years previous, which though not as great as living with Francis, was a wonderful alternative to putting up with Arthur's shit. But all of that had changed just a little more than a year ago when Arthur had just barged back into his life with a "hey chap, you know that possible revolution thing that I said was never going to happen? Yeah, well, it's happening. The Americans are going to attack very soon, so I'm just gonna set up camp here and fend them off for you, alright Mate?"

All Matthew wanted was to be left alone, but he wasn't going to get that anytime soon, was he? The Americans might be weak now, they had been easily repelled from his territory, but the longer that Arthur stalled in crushing them, and there was simply no denying that he _was_ stalling, the stronger they would become. And the longer they held out, the more likely they were to attract allies, powerful allies who would love nothing more than to see Great Britain become Not-So-Great Britain. Allies like the Dutch, or the Spanish, or …

Or the French. Matthew didn't want to think about that last possibility, but with a sinking feeling realized that it would be just like Francis to ally with the Americans just because they were opposing the British. In this giant volley of revenge that the two of them had probably played since the beginning of time, it was Francis' turn to knock the ball into Arthur's side of the court. That, and the fact that he was a hopeless romantiziser who always rooted for the underdog.

Matthew didn't want to fight his brother. He really didn't. But what choice would he have? He was a very small part of the Greater British Empire now, and he wasn't like America. He wouldn't, no, _couldn't_ simply declare independence just because of some lousy old power-struggle. So he had to do whatever Arthur told him, and Arthur, being terribly sadistic when it came to Francis, would undoubtedly smile with glee as he gave Matthew the order to shoot his brother in the face.

"What am I gonna do?" Matthew asked the room. And to his surprise, the room responded.

"Urgh...", came a groan from somewhere within the mess hall, maybe in the far corner. Matthew glanced this way and that. Who could have possibly been parley to his inner monologue? Those thoughts were private, dammit. But as he looked around, he couldn't see anyone. So who could have possibly made that noise?

He stood up and, swiveling through the maze of tables and benches strewn haphazardly around, made his way over to the far side of the room where he was sure the voice had come from. And then he saw him. Somehow he had managed to lodge himself in between two tables, his limbs splayed in every direction. He was barely conscious, yet somehow still managed a swig from the small flask in his hand that was technically _supposed_ to be filled with water.

Matthew rolled his eyes. Why was it always _his_ job to sober up the drunk messes that he always seemed to find himself in the presence of? Did he have a sign plastered to his back saying "Tell me all of your drunken worries and cares"? Or was he just a drunk magnet?

"For Christ's sake, Arthur", he said, trying to help the man into a sitting position, "What have you done to yourself?" Arthur was, meanwhile, uncooperative. At least when Francis had been drunk, he had just let Matthew steer him wherever he needed to go, but it turned out that Arthur was one of those drunks who always insist that they're perfectly sober even whilst vomiting up a lung from alcohol poisoning. Except that he couldn't actually get alcohol poisoning, which meant that he could hit levels of drunk which mortals were incapable of ever reaching in their wildest dreams. Hooray for immortality!

"'Only ha' a fuuu", Arthur mumbled incoherently as Matthew finally wrestled him onto the bench at one of the tables. He basically collapsed against it, the flask falling out of his grip. Its contents, what little was left, spilled onto the table, quickly absorbed by the wood grain. It smelled strongly of whiskey, and Matthew crinkled his nose as the sharp, sour scent burned his nostrils.

Sighing, Matthew sat down beside him. "What would happen if the soldiers saw you like this?"

"They don' fuggin' care. They'rrrre bloody Canadians".

"Thanks man", said Matthew, "That makes me feel really good".

Arthur smiled. Apparently the whiskey had impeded his sense of sarcasm. "No problem, mmmate". He clumsily grabbed his flask from where it lay and tried to drink from it again, but it was, of course, empty. "Oh, bugger it all, 's'all gone".

Matthew shook his head. He simply couldn't believe that here was the man who no more than ten years ago had just waltzed in and handed Francis his ass on a silver platter. How far he had fallen. Then again, maybe he had always been like this and no one had gotten close enough to realize it. Maybe that's why he was like this _in the first place_.

"What's got you all worked up then?" He asked out of habit, far too used to Francis' style of drunkenness, who'd always practically _made_ him ask out of sheer dramatics. That, it seemed, was not Arthur's style, who sat in sullen silence, drooling on the table a wee bit.

He took a minute to respond. He took so long that Matthew was sure he hadn't heard the question, so he opened his mouth to repeat himself when Arthur suddenly began to produce an almost incoherent slur of words.

"It's jus' that I r'member things … thin's I tol' him. I r'member his chubby lil' face, cutes' thing ya' evar saw … jus' lookin' up at me like … like I was somethin' _special_ , someone to admire. I've never been admired 'efore. 'Feels nice. I … I r'member af'er the fire, 'e was so small I coul' lift'im over my shoulder, an' … an' he was soooo scared. An'. An'. An' I was Bloody Big Brother Britain, I was gonna pro … protec' him, an' I tol' him that I weren't gon' let anyone 'urt 'im ever again. An' now … now I'm the one who's …"

His head hit the table, and Matthew couldn't see, but he was pretty sure that he was crying. He didn't make any noise, but his shoulders shook. Matthew paused. He'd never, _ever_ seen him like this before. So he shook his head and, numbly, patted him on the back, trying to be comforting to this man he hardly knew who was suddenly spilling his guts to him.

"Thanks", said Arthur, raising his head again and running a finger under his nose. "I jus' … can't get over how _big_ 'e is. An' I _missed_ it. I missed it all because I had to be bloody … bloody, ruddy _idiot_ _moron_ an' forge'. An' then I fin'lly r'member an' come back an' I've bloody well gone and buggered it up again. I can't lift 'im o'er my shoulder now if I tried …" He laughed bitterly.

"If it's working you up so much, why don't you just let him go, eh? Give him his independence like he wants?" Matthew asked quietly.

That old, familiar rage flared up suddenly in Arthur's eyes. There was the man he knew. "Because 'e's _my_ bloody colony!" He shouted, "He should know 'is _flipping_ place". He paused then, as if almost shocked that the words had come out of his mouth. "I need 'nother drink".

"What you _need_ is to go to bed", said Matthew, standing up. "Come on", he implored, grabbing Arthur under his arms to try to force him to stand.

He did, but shakily. Matthew was supporting most of his weight as he began to stumble into the next room and up the stairs. "Ya know", Arthur mumbled, half asleep already. "You look a hell of a lot like him".

"Yeah?" Asked Matthew, not really paying attention as he grunted, forcing Arthur up the stairs one painful step at a time.

"Yeah", he echoed back, "In fact, I'd almos' think you _were_ 'im if you weren't so fuggin grim all the time".

"Thanks, Arthur", said Matthew, with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Thanks".

* * *

"Hey", someone whispered through the blackness of the tent. "Hey, Alfred". That same someone proceeded to nudge Alfred with the tip of their boot.

Alfred stirred, half sat up. "What?" He asked, groggy. "Is it morning already?" He looked outside then, and saw that the tent was still swathed in the pitch black of night. "It's the middle of the night, dude. What's the big deal?"

"Washington's orders. Get up, get your stuff. We're going on a secret mission". As Alfred's eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw Billy standing over him, eye's twinkling, a big grin plastered on his face. He offered a hand down, and Alfred took it, getting to his feet.

They climbed out of the tent into the cold Christmas day night. The soldiers had been able to cross the river eventually and set up camp in New Jersey, across the Delaware, where they were to wait for reinforcements from General Lee (4). It had been five days, and there was still not a single word from Lee or his troops. It was made _very_ clear by this point that they weren't coming, which was a big problem. This standoff on the riverbank with the British wasn't going to last forever.

Billy and Alfred crossed the dark, drowsy camp to the large conglomerate of soldiers milling around at the far end. Thomas stood towards the back, yawning profusely. He had nice teeth, yet another sign that he came from affluence. Smiling vaguely as they approached, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with a hand.

"Hey, do _you_ know what this is all about?" Alfred asked him quietly, trying not to break the oddly subdued silence that had settled around the camp.

Thomas shook his head. "No idea. No one else seems to know either".

Alfred glanced at the assembled soldiers. It seemed as if every single man at the camp was standing in this cluster. That was when he noticed just how few of them were left. So many men had simply left when the war took a turn for the worse, and of those few that remained, most of their enlistments would expire within the this "secret mission" was, it was no attack. This was a last stand.

Someone at the front of the line was giving silent directions, moving his hands around wildly so everyone could see. He pulled aside a small group of soldiers and Alfred heard him whisper something along the lines of "making a lot of noise". Why would they do something like that? It would give away their positions to the Redcoats.

Alfred was confused. What in the _hell_ was going on? He wished he knew what the plan was, because so far it made no sense to him. All he could do now, though, was trust that General Washington knew what he was doing, though he couldn't turn off that small voice at the back of his mind that thought that this plan, whatever it was, was all going to horribly, horribly wrong.

Then some kind of signal must have been given towards the front of the line, because the conglomerate of soldiers began to move. But to Alfred's surprise, they weren't moving deeper into the woods or away from the river, they were headed _towards_ it., getting into the boats that had taken them to safety in the first place. Were they going to the British camp? _Now?!_ They would get their asses kicked into the next week. What assinine plan _was this?_

No, because they were not directly crossing the river. Instead, their boats began to head downstream. But then they began to disappear into the cold mist that lay upon the river, and Alfred couldn't see them anymore. A muttering ran through the soldiers. Clearly, everyone else was just as confused as Alfred.

Soon, Alfred, Thomas, and Billy reached the bank, and wordlessly hopped into one of the rowboats, which was quickly crammed to the brim with soldiers before it set off into the river. The bank began to disappear as they headed into the fog, embracing them like a blanket. Well, maybe a wet blanket that had just come out of the wash, but the simile stands.

"Where are we going?" Billy echoed Alfred's thoughts, his words falling thick and heavy in this misty world they found themselves floating through. Alfred and Thomas shrugged. No one, it seemed, least of all them, knew.

They glided through the oddly calm water for a long time. Alfred really hoped that there would be no chunks of ice floating in the black, as they could create holes in the fragile wooden boats. But they were lucky, because a few minutes later, they ran aground without so much as a scrape.

The soldiers climbed onto the bank in silence. Alfred's heart was jumping in his chest. He didn't know where they were or what they were going to do, but he had a distinct feeling that it was going to be something absolutely insane. They stood on the gravelly, frozen bank for a minute, freezing in the night air, and the last of the boats came aground, their bottoms scraping the bank in an abnormally loud way that made Alfred wince.

Then, suddenly, the word was passed through the group like a wave. At first, Alfred couldn't quite believe it. "No", he said to Billy, who'd the message first, "Really? It sounds..."

"Just crazy enough to work?" Billy finished for him, "I know". Thomas just shook his head, an insane smile passing over his face as he readied his gun. As it turned out, the hard part of the secret mission, crossing the Delaware without being detected to Trenton, which they were now on the bank of, was already over. But now came the crazy part: Trenton was where the Hessians were camped. They were a well-disciplined, European fighting force, and the plan was to take them by surprise while they were sleeping and capture them all. As Billy said, it was just crazy enough to work.

They snuck into the town using the cover of night. Alfred's gun was cold metal in his hands, and he was pretty sure that his fingers were frozen to it. If they had had torches, he probably would have seen his breath thick and white in the air, but the light would have given them away.

The wood cabin that the sleeping Hessians currently occupied loomed ahead of them, it's moon-tinged silhouette casting an ominous shadow on the soldiers. Quickly, they had it surrounded. Billy was lost somewhere else in the crowd, but Thomas and Alfred were both positioned directly in front of the door. Alfred couldn't see his face, but he was pretty sure that Thomas was smiling.

"Psst", one of the Captains whispered to them, "We've got no one who speaks German, so I want you two to go in there and explain the explain the situation as best as you can".

Alfred gave a thumbs-up, and only realized a second later that the Captain couldn't see it in the dark. "Got it", he whispered. He turned the knob on the door, and opened it. It creaked, and they both cringed. Thomas snuck in first, and Alfred followed quickly behind.

Thomas and Alfred stood over the sleeping Hessians, and Thomas cleared his throat. A few bodies roused in the dark. Someone asked something in German that was probably along the lines of "Who's there?"

"Attention dipshits", Thomas called to the room, "We are the Continental Army, and we have you surrounded with—how many men would you say we have, Al?"

"At least a thousand".

By now the Hessians were muttering to themselves in confused German. "We have you surrounded with a thousand soldiers", Thomas continued, "So, I guess surrender or die, mercenary scum".

After that, it was over fairly quickly. Only about half of the Hessians understood English, so several pockets of resistance broke out from the Germans who thought that they were still fighting, a few random gunshots went off and hit someone in the leg. But all in all, everything was decently calm as they rounded up all of the highly confused Germans.

Alfred grinned from ear to ear as a chorus of "Yankee Doodle Dandy" broke out among the soldiers in sheer defiance of the British slur. Sure, they were Yankee's, and these Yankees were going to win.

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) The British did of course eventually find some mercenaries in the form of the Hessians. Basically, one of the little kingdoms in the Greater Holy Roman Empire agreed to help, in exchange for a hefty amount of cash.

(2) For the life of me I don't know why they did this, but for the first part of the war, the soldiers who signed on for the Continental army had enlistment periods, and once those were done they could all go home, but this meant that a new army had to be trained, and it was a big huge mess, until Steuban (who we'll get to later) sorted it all out.

(3) This was a fort in Canada, and one of the major fighting grounds in the Quebec campaign early in the war, when the British successfully repelled the Continentals.

(4) General Lee was an experienced military man, like Washington, and was really jealous of the latter's control over the army. He purposely stalled in going to his troops' aid, in a gambit to get Washington fired. He was not a nice guy.

* * *

 _I hope that Arthur's drunken hysterics weren't completely unintelligible. Let me know._

 _I'm thinking of doing a podcast reading of this when I'm done with it in about six-ish weeks. What do you guys think?_


	14. The Secret Revealed (Again)

_I just realized that I forgot to post this last week! Oops. Sorry, two chapters this week, then!_

 _Hello, hello! Back for another week. Only six chapters left until I'm done with this monster which is slowly consuming my soul! Yay! No, jk, I've had a great time writing this, but I will be excited to begin thinking about other projects as well._

 _This chapter gets a bit intense, for those of you with weak constitutions, so watch out! And don't forget to enjoy._

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

The Secret Revealed (again)

September 19th, 1777

Thomas had been sitting in a tree all morning. He'd been promoted recently to a "Rifleman", which apparently meant that he could shoot well enough to pick off the Redcoats from a nice quiet hiding place off the ground vs. Twenty feet in front of him like Alfred, who was frankly a sitting duck anyway with that bright blue coat he insisted on wearing. One would think he'd be happy about the decreased mortality rate of the Riflemen, but all Thomas could really think about how stiff his legs were from being wrapped around a tree branch for the last five hours.

When were those damned Redcoats going to show up, anyway? It was far past time to get this show on the road. But still there was silence in the trees where about a dozen or so of the Riflemen had concealed themselves among the leaves. Thomas didn't know how much longer he could last up here. He seriously had to take a piss.

He laughed bitterly then. Three years ago, he would have never imagined using a word so uncouth as "piss" to express his need for the action. Then again, he'd literally been an entirely different person three years ago. Back then he'd thought that he was rebellious, and could do so much more above his station, and he'd thought that becoming a soldier could prove it once and for all. To his father, to his sister, to himself. He'd had no idea what he was getting himself into.

Not that he regretted a minute of it. But three years of being wet and cold and miserable almost constantly, three years of watching his friends and comrades die around him, had given him some much needed perspective. It wasn't just about him, his own personal revolution, about proving himself, it was about all of these soldiers around him, and the freedom they were willing to give their lives to win, and all of the people who _couldn't_ fight, but believed in the cause more desperately than anyone.

Smiling, he wondered just what his father would think of all this. He'd probably have a heart attack. Then again, he hadn't seen the bastard in three years. With any luck he was already dead. But Thomas shook himself. Now was not the time to dwell on such matters. That was distant history now, far behind him, and he had moved on.

Thomas adjusted himself on his branch, trying to get comfortable, a task that was quickly proving impossible. The branch was a thick bough, and it rustled slightly as Thomas moved. The tree was at the edge of a forest overlooking the huge field spread out before it. Somewhere, he knew, Alfred and the rest of them were waiting for the signal to fight, to die. The British were coming soon. Several platoons of Continentals were hopefully still chasing them towards this little ambush. He wondered if something had happened to them. Billy would be right in the thick of it. Would the rest of the men simply retreat if the Redcoats put up a fight, which they would undeniably do? For Billy's sake, Thomas hoped they had more backbone than that.

The cool autumn wind blew through the trees, and Thomas shivered. Fall had come early this year, and he was _not_ happy about it. But still, the field was barren, no bright red coats as far as the eye could see. Thomas sighed, trying to relieve the tension, trying to not think about Billy, and the fact that he could be lying dead in the woods somewhere right now. The waiting was undeniably the hardest part.

Then, he heard it. A whistle echoed through the trees like the call of a whippoorwill. That was the signal. Thomas readied his rifle and glanced across the field. So far there were no Redcoats, but they must be coming. Unless the call he'd heard had _actually been a whippoorwill,_ in which case he was just an idiot holding a gun in a tree.

But there, as he peered through the trees, just a pinprick on the horizon, there was a figure in red coming over the crest of the hill, marching quickly, as if running. Haha! Billy had done it! Then came another, and another, and the army slowly came into view. Thomas' breath caught in his throat. The last time he'd faced the Redcoats had been at Bunker Hill, and then he'd been hiding in a trench, so he'd been spared the sight of the massive army. A sea of British soldiers swarmed over the hill, mounting it like a tidal wave, closer every second.

But he couldn't freeze up now. Thomas breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down. If he continued to shake this badly, then he would never be able to hit a target, let alone hold his gun at all. The Riflemens' job was to take out the commanding officers, while the rest of the Continentals kept the army at bay.

As they came closer a shot rang out from somewhere to Thomas' right, and the Continentals came out to meet the mass of red. Smoke began to rise from the hill, and Thomas tried his best to aim at something, _anything_ red, but in the mass pandemonium down below he could barely see anything. He crept out further on his branch, trying to get a better view of the battlefield.

The almost _incessant_ droning bang of firearms filled his ears, and with all of the haze he couldn't be sure, but it almost seemed as if the Continentals were _gaining_ ground. From the next tree over, the hoo of an owl reached his ears, and Thomas parroted (haha, puns. Thomas loved puns) it to the tree on his other side, passing the signal along. He looked to the crest of the hill and there, riding atop a horse was, well, _someone_ important. He wasn't really aware of all the names and ranks of the British commanding officers, but that really didn't matter. The signal had been correct, here was someone that someone else needed to shoot, and quickly, while they still had good visibility above the battle. So why not him?

The wind kept blowing the leaves of his tree around, which obscured his vision. If he was going to aim and actually land a shot, he was going to have to get closer. Thomas inched further forward on his branch. It shook a little, he was getting pretty far out, but he counted on his light physique to help him now. He shouldered the rifle, glancing down the barrel. The man on the horse was a little bit closer now, but still at the top of the hill, hovering above the carnage below. Under his ostentatious hat was a mess of spiky hair, but even that couldn't obscure the rather large eyebrows that hid under his fringe. This was it, the moment to strike. Thomas held his breath, his finger on the trigger, and then … and then the blasted wind had to change. A cloud of dust blocked the man from Thomas' view. "Dammit", he muttered, creeping even further out on his narrowing branch. The dust cleared after a moment, and Thomas aimed again. He would have to fire soon, his arm was getting sore, but he wanted a clear shot. Then, his mind screamed _NOW_ and he pulled the trigger, the bang reverberating through his skull.

But before he could view his handiwork, there came a crack from under him. He had tempted fate, and she was a right bitch, or maybe he just wasn't as light as he thought he was. "Oh shit", he muttered as his branch broke beneath him. Thomas tumbled to the ground, cutting a swath through the leaves and branches that clawed at his face and arms as if they too were trying to keep him aloft. But after a few seconds he came to rest on the forest floor in a battered heap.

Thomas, though bleeding and in pain, was not one for letting a sarcastic quote go unsaid. "That", he mumbled to the ground, which his face was currently pressed up against, "did not go as planned".

* * *

Alfred, meanwhile, was right in the thick of it. Often times, in stories and poetry, people made war out to be some kind of grandeous, strategic game, with the players trying to out fox each other with tiny, inanimate pieces on a board. Alfred, however, knew this to be false. The best the players could do was point their pieces in the right direction and cross their fingers that everything would go according to plan. Except that the pieces were not inanimate at all, the players were playing with real, tangible lives.

Because when a battle started, there was no slow, contemplative pondering, no strategy at all, there was simply kill or be killed, and Alfred felt just as mortal as the rest of them. He felt the fear pound through his chest just as strongly as his fellow soldiers. When you were in a war, a battle, waist-deep in gore and the dead, with their staring eyes, you simply grabbed whatever moved and hoped that the guy whose skull you were beating to a pulp wasn't one of your friends.

It was pandemonium, pure and simple, and Alfred scratched and twisted and clawed, every second a struggle to keep breathing, keep his heart beating in his chest. And so he kept moving. You tempted fate to send a bullet through the air directly into your brain if you stayed in one place for too long, so Alfred shifted from foot to foot, moving every second. Forward, forward, just keep moving forward. Push them back.

Slowly, shockingly, they did. The Redcoats backed up further and further up the hill, but then they would come on with bayonets and drive the Continentals back once again. On and on this went through the chilly autumn day. Alfred couldn't feel the cold. He was too busy _staying alive_ to worry about a little chill. His brain immediately shot those pesky thoughts complaining about the frost with a shotgun while sitting in a rocking chair on its porch.

Eventually, however, Alfred couldn't ignore those nagging signals anymore. So, bleeding and breathing hard, he backed out of the front line, just for a minute. Of course, he was still fighting, _always_ fighting, but it was a lot less intense back here. Even so, he was wrestling with one of the stray Redcoats who had somehow managed to get all of the way to the woods when he heard the crash behind him in the trees.

"That", mumbled a voice from the bushes, "Did _not_ go as planned".

Alfred almost had to laugh. That voice had unmistakably been Thomas, who luckily enough did not sound too injured, especially if he was still able to make self-deprecating comments. "Are you okay, dude?" He asked whilst stabbing the Redcoat in the chest with a bayonet, who fell, moaning, to the ground in a bleeding heap.

"I … I think so", said Thomas. Alfred turned to see the boy trying to get up, but he winced in pain as he put weight on his right arm and collapsed to the ground again. Struggling, he managed to get himself into a sitting position.

"What happened?" Asked Alfred, glancing back to the battlefield every few seconds.

Thomas tried once again, and this time, managed, shakily, to get to his feet. "I was _trying_ to shoot this pansy on a horse", he said, "But I was being an idiot and got too far out on my branch and the recoil snapped it".

"Are you alright, man?" Alfred noticed another Redcoat approaching the trees. They must have discovered the riflemen, because they were coming back here more and more frequently, and seemed to be walking with some sort of purpose.

Shaking his arm, which hung limp, Thomas winced. "Yeah", he said, reaching down to pick up his rifle. As soon as he tried to grip it in his hand he let out a yelp of pain. "Fuck!"

"You should go back to camp and get your arm looked at", Alfred aimed his musket at the oncoming Redcoat and fired, a burst of red showering from the back of his head as he fell to the ground.

"I'm fine", Thomas spat, trying again. The boy certainly was persistent. But he couldn't get a grip on the rifle. "God dammit!"

Alfred shook his head. "If you can't pick up a gun, then you are _not_ fine", Alfred aimed again, the gun kicked in his hands. "I've got you covered".

"Fine", Thomas sighed, "But if you get your asses handed to you while I'm gone, then it's all your fault". He picked up his gun with his other hand, and began to walk back through the woods, looking a little worried as he glanced back once at Alfred.

"I'm willing to take that responsibility", Alfred called to him, grinning. Thomas paused mid-stride, turned back once more, then arranged his fingers into a rather obscene gesture before turning back to camp for good.

Meanwhile, the battle continued to rage around him, and Alfred quickly found himself at the front line again. The Continentals would plow their way up the hill like a wave lapping hungrily at the shore only to be pushed back by the British once again. But Alfred noticed with grim satisfaction that there were far more corpses wearing red than blue.

Alfred shot and stabbed and did everything he could to stay on his feet. But then, out of seemingly nowhere, rising over the noise of the battlefield, someone screamed. He turned, just for a second, and saw a man in blue, a Continental, an _American_ , clutching his stomach as blood ran through his fingers, thick and red, soaking the ground beneath him. That's when the pain hit him. Alfred hadn't gotten shot, or stabbed, or hurt in anyway, he was _sure_ of it, but somehow, he felt as if that bullet had gone through _his_ stomach. And then, all around him, he began to hear the sounds of _all_ of the Continentals being hurt and killed, and he _felt it all_. Everything, coursing through him as he died a million different ways.

He almost collapsed from the pain of it all. This had never happened to him before, why now? And then, through the cloud of red that was quickly obscuring his vision, he saw it: The men that were fighting today, these people who were fighting, and killing, and dying, for _him_ , they weren't Colonists or British subjects anymore. They were _Americans_. Reconciliation was no longer possible now. Even he had been hoping that he might be able to talk to Arthur like his _brother_ again, but after this, they were going to become a country, or _die trying_.

And through all of the pain and death he felt something else: that small, but important, stab of hope that they all felt while they gave their lives for the cause. Alfred closed his eyes, pressing his lids together so tightly that a few tears slipped out of the sides, trying to find where that small bit of hope was floating around his head and grab onto it, let it fill him enough that he could simply block out the pain.

Before he knew what he had done, Alfred had raised his musket and shot three of the men in the Red Coats. They would not hurt his people anymore, not if he could help it. The Americans were strong, stronger than Britain realized. If you kicked them down, they would simply get right back up again. Because if this was what it really meant to be a Nation, to feel all of this hurt and pain, but also this intense _hope,_ then he would just have to use his soldiers' sacrifices to make sure that no one would ever be hurt again. If he had to do it single handedly, if he had to endure hell to save the lives of all of these people, then so be it. He _would_ be the hero.

Then he heard a bang to his right, and Alfred was dimly aware that a small, insignificant piece of metal had lodged itself into his collarbone. He turned slowly, and saw one lone Redcoat standing over the bodies of the soldiers that Alfred had ended. "You … you bastard!" The boy shouted, "That was my brother!" Alfred's breath caught in his throat. The boy shot the gun, reloaded, three more times, and each one hit Alfred square in the chest with a loud, resounding thump.

But Alfred made no motion at all. "How?" The boy asked, "Why … why won't you _die?!"_ He fired again, and again, but Alfred just began to walk slowly towards him. "What _are_ you?" The boy's voice trembled.

Alfred raised the butt of his gun over the boy's head. This one wouldn't die, but Alfred couldn't allow him to hurt anyone. "I am America".

* * *

War makes monsters of us all.

Alfred hadn't realized that until now. He stood directly in the middle of the smoldering battlefield, which was strewn calf-deep in bodies. Some were alive, covered in blood and grime and moaning quietly in agony, their voices rising like a chorus, most were dead. The flies buzzed around the lifeless bodies, and maggots squirmed within. The red and blue of the men's coats mingled together. Only equal in death.

A few soldiers, American, British—what did it really matter?—wandered the field, in search of the living intermingled with the dead, bodies with still enough breath left to patch up and send right back into the jaws of death. There was no sound save for the wind blowing forlornly through the trees and the occasional moan of someone stuck between living and not. Alfred shivered, though not because of the cold.

He didn't know what had happened to him on that battlefield. First there'd been that terrible, horrible pain that had coursed through him like lightning, that ached so much he thought his chest would explode. Then that strange feeling of hope had filled him and … nothing. The next thing he remembered was coming to soaked from head to foot in blood, some his, most not, shaken but, of course, very much alive.

He'd killed a lot of them, he knew that much. His knuckles were raw and bleeding from the countless jaws he must have smacked into the ground, and he was almost out of bullets. How many of those had ended someone's life? He couldn't even remember their faces, just a mess of red coats that he had to eliminate, kill, thoroughly and utterly destroy in order to make sure his people were safe. And he had. It scared him. Alfred shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn't think straight.

Stepping over a few bodies, Alfred continued his search for breathers. He was about to move further up the hill and away from the woods when out of nowhere, something grabbed his ankle. Alfred, already tense, must have jumped a foot in the air. He looked down, and there, attached to the hand that was clamped like a vice around his leg, was a very familiar face.

"Billy?"

The mud-smudged face broke into a grin, revealing dirt lodged in his crooked teeth. He was half-buried under bodies, probably in a lot of pain, but still managed to remain calm and cheerful. Alfred didn't know quite how he did it. "How's it look up there?" He asked, coughing, "Did we win?"

"We fought 'em to a draw", Alfred said, kneeling down and shoving a corpse off of his friend. "But you shouldn't be worried about that dude, your leg's fucked up".

It was true. Though he wasn't vitally wounded in any way that Alfred could see, his leg was bent in an impossible shape that no human leg should ever find itself in. Unless, of course, you were a contortionist, which Billy most certainly wasn't. "Come on", Alfred said, helping Billy to his feet, "Let's get you back to camp".

He didn't quite make it up the first time, and fell back down into the mud. "I guess I don't quite have the constitution you do, Al". He somehow managed to laugh through his pain.

"Trust me, you don't know how good you've got it", Alfred said, trying one more time. They managed it this time. Tottering a bit, Billy threw his weight on Alfred's shoulder, trying to balance on one leg. Sure, he probably could have just _carried_ him, but it would look a little strange to see him carry a full-grown man into camp without breaking a sweat. They weren't going to get anywhere like this, though.

"Hey", he called to another soldier in blue, who looked shell-shocked and very confused, "Could you come here and give me a hand?" The soldier complied, numbly, and together, with Billy smushed between them, they gradually made their way through the woods and back to camp.

Billy was looking exceptionally pale by the time that they pushed past the group of soldiers in various states of coping and into the relative dark of the infirmary. Thinking back on it later, any psychologist would have had a field day examining the different ways that the soldiers were dealing with the intense trauma that they'd just experienced. Some moved, shuffling around to keep themselves busy, some of them just kept talking, babbling on about unrelated things, as if it could stop them from thinking about it all together, and some just sat or stood and stared off into space, probably reliving the battle in their heads.

The infirmary was a large tent with so many injured soldiers packed into it that it resembled a sardine can more than anything else. It was made of canvas, so artificial lights like candles had to be minimized for fear that the fabric would catch fire, so it was pretty dark as Alfred tried to find someone to help Billy.

One of the doctors came over after a minute and helped Billy lay down on one of the cots placed on the floor and told Alfred, given, in much kinder words, that he should go away because he was in the way.

He couldn't quite leave yet, though, because the bullet hole he'd taken through his collarbone was actually beginning to throb now, and he was pretty sure that the others would start soon too. It was probably a good idea to get them checked, because although technically an immortal being, his wounds could still get infected, which was a bitch he'd rather not deal with now on top of everything else. There was only one doctor in the whole Continental army who could understand why he was still standing with a bullet to the collarbone and about five other places as well. Luckily, he happened to be at the camp.

But Benson wasn't in the warm tent, which given, was awfully crowded, so maybe Alfred was just missing him, but after a minute, still hadn't found him. "Excuse me", he asked a rather harried doctor, "Have you seen Dr. Benson around?"

"I think he just walked out a few minutes ago", the doctor mumbled, highly distracted with the bullet wound he was currently surgically removing from a man's shoulder. Alfred thanked him, and got a grunt in response. He walked out of the blistering tent and into the relative quiet of the camp beyond. Benson wasn't around here as far as he could see either. Alfred was getting worried. He was the only one who could help him, and Alfred knew he was here, had seen him just the other day, but _where_ exactly was he?

"I'm fine, doc. Really", came a voice that Alfred initially thought had come from the tent. But no, it was too clear, too loud. Around the back, maybe? He strode around the side of the tent and yes, there was Benson, who was standing besides Thomas. The boy was sitting on a log roughly hued into a bench, and was looking very nervous. He jumped an inch when Alfred came into view.

Benson, seeing Thomas glancing over his shoulder, turned. "Hey, doc", Alfred said, "Can I borrow you for a minute".

"Yes, in a second", the doctor waved him off.

Thomas perked up. "Oh, Alfred, thank _god_ you're here. Can you tell this quack that I'm fine?"

"I don't know, man", Alfred shrugged, "Your arm looked pretty nasty", he sat down on the other side of the bench, impatient to get his own wounds checked.

"Now listen, Carter", said the doctor with a slight hint of condescension, "I think the break is in your shoulder. If you'll just unbutton your shirt then I can examine it".

"I'm fine", Thomas almost squeaked, "See? Look", he tried to stand up, using his injured arm to help him off the bench, but plopped back down with a hiss of pain as soon as any weight was put on it. "God dammit".

Benson rolled his eyes, probably far too used to this crap to find it anything less than merely annoying. "If you don't take off your shirt and let me see, then the bone will heal wrong and you'll never be able to shoot a gun again, or do anything _else_ for that matter". Thomas froze, clearly considering the possibility of being unable to shoot. "Please?"

Thomas sighed. "Fine". He looked as if he was about to go in front of a firing squad as he unbuttoned his, well, used-to-be-white shirt.

Alfred, for one, was confused. He'd assumed that the boy was just self-conscious of his shrimpy physique, but he was actually pretty well-toned. What confused him was the bandage that Thomas had wrapped tightly around his chest, though Alfred was pretty sure he'd never been hit there in the time that he'd known him. So why did he … ? Unless …

It seemed to dawn on Benson at the same time as Alfred. Thomas was blushing furiously now, and sunk down on the bench, wincing slightly, as if he wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and never come back out while the two men stared at his chest.

"Oh", said Benson.

"Oh", said Alfred.

Thomas didn't say anything.

"I … I can't treat you in the tent", Benson stuttered, "Hold on". A blush practically identical to Thomas' sprung up on his face. "Let me get my things". He quickly fled the scene, practically running back around the side of the tent.

Alfred and Thomas sat in silence, determined not to look at each other. Alfred realized that he was not the only one who had secrets. Finally, he couldn't hold his thoughts in any longer, and burst out: "I didn't know you were a—"

But Thomas had also begun to speak. "I hope this doesn't—" They both chuckled nervously. "You first", said Thomas, his voice higher now, not trying to push itself into lower octaves as Alfred now saw was not natural for it.

"I didn't know you were a _girl_ ". He said at last, embarrassed.

Thomas shrugged. "You never asked".

"What's your name?" Alfred asked now, "Your _real_ name, I mean".

Pausing for a moment, almost having to think about it, Thomas sighed, and laughed softly. "Katerina", she said at last, "Katerina Carter".

Alfred did a double take. He _knew_ that name, he'd heard it before. It must have been, oh, five years ago, now. "Katerina … Wait, are you … ?" She nodded a bit. "I, I knew Sam".

She smiled, a little sad. And why shouldn't she be. Because now Alfred remembered her face. She had waved to Samuel Gray from across the street in Boston as Alfred teased him about her. That was a good memory, but it also brought back thoughts of the massacre, which was certainly _not_ a good memory. "Yes", said Katerina, "You're Alfred Jones. He talked about you sometimes. You were a good friend".

"Was that why you—?"

"Cut off my hair and ran away to join the revolution?" She finished for him, "No. His death was the worst thing to ever happen to me, but I'm …" She looked up at the sky, and the sun setting behind the trees, glowing a bright orange, "I'm not fighting for him, I never was. When I started, I was fighting for _me_. To prove to the world that I wasn't … wasn't useless, I guess".

"And now?"

"Now? I don't really know", she cocked her head to the side, thinking. "I guess maybe, because I can do something for the good of all of the people who can't fight, you know? I'm fighting for all of the people that are like what I was before the war".

Alfred smiled. "Well", he said slowly, "That's one of the best reasons that _I've_ ever heard".

* * *

 _I'm participating in World Building June over on my tumblr, so if you want to hear me ramble on about fictional worlds in my head, feel free to check it out. Also, if anyone else is participating, totally link me over to your blogs as well, I'd love to check them out!_


	15. The Training Montage

_Well now! We're almost in the home stretch, people! Thanks for sticking with me for this adventure. Nothing much to say, so enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

The Training Montage

January 25th, 1778

The cold winter wind whipped fiercely through the trees, blowing snow into the faces of the travelers. They squinted against the cold, and urged their horses to plow on through the gray wastes. Gilbert shivered even under his large overcoat, and approximately five extra layers under that. Actually, this cold wasn't dissimilar to German winters, but he was sure that someone had told him that America was a beautiful sunshine land full of rainbows and unicorns. Needless to say, he was sorely disappointed so far, as there were no unicorns in sight, and certainly no sunshine in the bleak middle of winter.

But he would simply have to bear through it. The ragtag Continental army apparently needed his awesomeness to function properly. His good buddy Francis, newly allied with the rebels, had asked him to accompany the "Baron" Von Steuben (1) to America. Normally, he would have laughed him into next week. Him, the awesome _Prussia_ , help a disgraced military man train a group of rebels against _Britain_? Gilbert didn't help rebels, he squashed them into the dirt, and he was very good at it. But he _did_ owe Francis for his help with the Austrian Succession, and it looked as if Antonio was looking to make an alliance with the Americans as well. If he joined up, their unstoppable little trio would be at it again.

So, begrudgingly, he'd agreed to assist in training these Americans to be a proper European army, and had accompanied Steuben across the sea. There were five people in their little Teach-the-Americans-to-Kick-Britain-Where-it-Hurts party, with former Captain Von Steuben, his _aide de camp_ , Louis de Pontière, two other men of lesser significance but were apparently somehow useful, and of course, Gilbert, the great, all-powerful, undefeatable Nation of Prussia himself, if he was going to be modest.

Now, however, he was questioning his decision as his horse trudged on through the bleak weather. He could be back at home right now, sipping a beer by a warm fire with good old Fritz (2). But no, he just had to go on this little adventure, didn't he? To be honest, though, he was more than a little curious about this new Nation. Sure, Arthur had tried to keep the whole thing under wraps for a while but, inevitably, word got out that the Americans had a _Nation_ on their side. It was partially the reason why everyone was in such a great huffing hurry to make alliances with them, even if that meant drawing the ire of Britain, which, in Gilbert's eyes, at least, was just an added bonus.

Then, as he squinted his eyes against the biting wind, away in the distance, through the snow, Gilbert could swear that he saw a light. It was probably just his cold, tired mind playing dirty tricks on him, like that one time on the battlefield when what he'd thought was a frothing mug of beer had actually turned out to be a frothing mug of something, well, far less delicious. But when he turned to his companions, it seemed as if they saw it too. "Look", Steuben pointed to it off in the distance, "That must be a settlement. We'll stop here for the night".

Gilbert frowned. It very easily could have just been a farm or lone house, one too small to occupy the five of them for the night, but at this point he was so cold that he was willing to take the chance. Besides, why would anyone leave a light out in this blizzard if they weren't trying to signal travelers?

They rode carefully towards the flickering light, and as they got closer, the dim, shadowy shapes of buildings began to distinguish themselves from the gloom of the storm. It _was_ a settlement. Good! Any settlement worth its salt should have an inn or some sort of place to put up travelers for the night.

The light turned out to be a lantern dangling from the side of a large wooden building. It waved in the wind, casting strange shadows on the buildings and trees, and its light occasionally passed over a wooden sign which Gilbert saw read "The Drunken Frenchman". He was sure that this must be an inn of some kind, but couldn't help laughing all the same. Americans taverns had the strangest names.

One of the unimportant men who had been traveling with them went to put the horses in the stable, while the rest trooped into the inn and out of the frigid night. Inside it was small, but cheery, and, Gilbert couldn't help noticing, largely empty. Sure, a few people sat on stools by the cramped bar, locals probably, but Gilbert got the feeling that this was not the most well-traveled path that the inn was located on none the less.

The innkeeper, who had been polishing a glass, looked up as they stamped their feet against the cold. Von Steuben approached the bar confidently, and the others followed. "Hello", said Pontière, the translator, "We are travelers looking for a place to rest. Do you have rooms available?" His English was a little stiff, Gilbert could do better, but he didn't want the man to feel like he wasn't doing anything.

"Sure", said the Innkeeper, a portly man with a large nose, "Give me a second", he turned towards some of the locals, who looked as if their mugs could be filled.

Steuben shrugged the snow from his shoulders, still somehow managing to appear dignified. "How many days till me arrive?" He asked in slow, careful German, "I am tired of this traveling".

Pontière replied quickly, very much his opposite. "We will reach Valley Forge in a week, sir". The Innkeeper looked up from where he was talking with the locals. Of course, he probably had no idea what they were saying, but "Valley Forge" had no direct translation into German, and so was pronounced in English instead. And those two words had been enough.

"Valley Forge?" he asked, bristling, "You boys ain't helping those damned rebels, are you?" The Innkeeper shook his head, clearly disgusted with the very idea. The men at the bar also looked up, eyes narrowed. One of them spit on the ground at the word "rebels". Pontière's nose crinkled instinctively.

Steuben frowned, sensing the sudden shift in mood. "What did he say?" He muttered to Pontière, who repeated the Innkeeper's words nervously. The Captain laughed, and it was a truly terrifying chuckle, one that suggested that he would not be taking shit from four country bumpkins. Not today, sir! "Tell him who I am", he commanded the Frenchman.

"But sir", he admonished, "That might not be the best idea".

"And why not?" Steuben asked, daring Pontière to give him one good reason.

Pontière sighed heavily. "Because he's obviously a Tory, sir, a Loyalist. He could very well kick us out into the snow!"

"Ha!" Steuben barked. "He doesn't scare me. Tell him".

The Frenchman sighed again, even heavier than before. He turned back to the Innkeeper. "The man you're speaking to is Herr Wilhelm Von Steuben, former Captain of the great Prussian military, and currently _en route_ to Valley Forge to train the Americans".

Frowning, the Innkeeper shook his head. "I'm afraid I _don't_ have any rooms for you gentlemen after all", he said. Pontière translated automatically.

Steuben looked around the empty room. "Nonsense", he scoffed, "There's no one here. This man is clearly lying".

" _What_ did he just say?" Asked the Innkeeper, rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for a fight.

Pontière, who was looking more nervous every second about being stuck in the middle of the two men, practically squeaked. "He ... he called you a liar". He said finally. Steuben smiled broadly while the Innkeeper's scowl deepened.

"I will not provide room and board to any Yankee scum". He growled, banging his fists on the counter, "And that's final. Have fun freezing to death".

More translating ensued. Steuben laughed harder, a great barking laugh that shook the whole room. "This man thinks he's being intimidating!" He bellowed, "Gilbert, show him what it means to mess with a Prussian".

"Gladly, sir", Gilbert, who had been silent until now, smirked, then grabbed his handgun from his belt and pointed it directly at the Innkeeper's face, an inch away from his skin. The Innkeeper, in haste to back away from the cold metal stick, almost fell over. Needless to say, they did not spend the night outside (3).

* * *

Once again, Alfred stood in an inspection line with his fellow soldiers, who had, to their credit, actually managed to make the line straight this time. That may have been because they were all exceptionally nervous, even Alfred. After the past years of seeing nothing but blood and carnage, one would think that he would have nerves of steel, but no such luck apparently.

The Prussian man, Von Strudel? No, that couldn't be right. Von Steuben, that was it, walked down the line slowly, menacingly, like a cat does when it's trying to scare you into thinking that if you move even an inch, it's going to pounce and claw your face off. His _aide de camp_ and translator followed quickly behind, fluttering about nervously from foot to foot, a bird to Steuben's cat. Steuben poked and prodded at the soldiers with his long, thin cane, making adjustments to their posture. He kept shaking his head slowly as he went. "It's worse than I thought", he muttered to himself.

Alfred cleaned out his ear with a finger. The man didn't know a lick of English. He _had_ just spoken in German, hadn't he? _German_. But Alfred was pretty sure that he could understand him. He'd never learned German, at least, he was fairly positive, so how was this even possible? He had no idea, and yet, clear as day, he'd just understood it. Then again, things like this tended to happen to him more often than not, so it was less shocking for him than, say, if a normal person had sudden found themselves, without prior knowledge, capable of understanding German.

And so, Steuben just continued right on down the line with his silent menace, not speaking to any of the soldiers. In fact, the only time he actually spoke at all was to quietly converse with an extremely unusual man who had come to the camp with him. At first, the strange thing that caught Alfred's eye seemed to be his appearance: He had white hair, though he was obviously far too young to possess it, and his eyes were a strange amber, almost red color that Alfred had never seen before, and he had, of course, seen a lot of people in his day. But as he continued to watch the man, Alfred realized that there was something else about him that just seemed ... off, though Alfred couldn't put his finger on it.

He yawned then, unexpectedly, and attempted to stifle it with a hand. It was certainly unprofessional, and Alfred hadn't meant to produce so obnoxious a yawn, but he simply couldn't help it. He would freely admit that he hadn't gotten much sleep lately. It seemed as if every time he closed his eyes he saw the battlefield again, that he was fighting an endless battle once again. But he took solace in the fact that he wasn't the only one. Almost every soldier who'd seen action had that wary, haunted look about them that the new recruits noticeably lacked.

Of course, Steuben happened to be passing by him with his strange (albino?) companion as Alfred yawned. Steuben turned to him, and stared with narrowed eyes. Alfred was afraid that he was going to punch him, but he did nothing, just fixed him with a gaze that seemed to grip his very soul and dangle it over a pit of starving piranhas. Then, nodding, as if satisfied by something, he simply turned and walked away.

"Close one", Katerina muttered next to him. No one knew her secret still, no one except Alfred and Benson, who it seemed by this point had so much dirt on everyone that he could make a killing in blackmail. But the doctor had, thankfully, not told anybody. Katerina for one had seemed shocked. She explained that she was convinced they would send her home if they knew that she was actually of the female persuasion. Usually, they would have, but Benson told her frankly that she was too good a soldier to lose.

By this point, Steuben had reached the end of the line and was once more conferring with his albino friend and _aide de camp_. After a moment, the translator stepped forward. "Attention", he said, with a slight French accent. The line was already silent, and the man seemed to shrink under their gaze. "Attention", he said again, quieter this time, "The Captain would like to announce that there will, in addition to regular training, be a model brigade of ten men, to be trained by his comrade, Captain Beilschmidt".

The albino, Beilschmidt, stepped forward, grinning maliciously. Alfred thought privately that whoever got chosen to train with him was not going to have a good time. Beilschmidt started down the line, walking slowly, occasionally pointing at one of the soldiers and saying "sie", which Alfred somehow realized meant "you".

On and on he went, until eight of the soldiers were chosen. Then Beilschmidt reached Alfred, and he stopped walking mid-stride. He turned directly to Alfred, grinning like a shark, and it suddenly dawned on Alfred what he had found so strange about the man: he was a _Nation_ , plain and simple, and Alfred realized that _he_ was going to be the one to not have a good time.

"Sie", Beilschmidt chuckled. Alfred gulped. Seeing that he was thoroughly intimidated, Beilschmidt began to move on, but stopped again as his eyes fell on Katerina. His face went blank for a moment, and Alfred had to suppress the urge to put an arm in front of her and tell him to back off. Then again, knowing Katerina, she could probably do that herself.

But a second later the look on Beilschmidt's face had passed, and he smiled again, still very much the predator looking for weakness among sheep, but oddly enough, a little softer this time. "Sie", he said once more, pointing at her, "The short one". Katerina glared back at him, as if daring him to make one more rude comment. He didn't, just kept walking until he reached the end of the line.

"Alright", he said then, loudly, in English. "Those in the model brigade will meet in the training yard in ten minutes", the ten who had been chosen began to, inevitably, start complaining, and Beilschmidt's grin broadened even more. "Go ahead", he said, shrugging, "Be late. I _dare you_. It'll be more fun that way".

The complaining stopped abruptly then as Beilschmidt began to walk away, cackling all the while. What was Steuben thinking? He had set them to train with an absolute madman. Then over his shoulder, as if reading his thoughts, Beilschmidt said one final thing, this time in German, which he must have known that Alfred could understand. Alfred's cheeks began to grow red. "Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I look forward to kicking your ass, America".

* * *

Gilbert thought that training was actually going remarkably well, considering what he had to work with. The Americans weren't as bad as he'd been led to believe. The one thing that really threw him for a loop, however, was the constant, unending _questioning_. Back in Prussia, and in Europe in general, he supposed, if you gave a soldier an order he would simply do it, no questions asked. But here, you gave an order and the soldiers just asked "why". Why is the sky blue? Why are hedgehogs so adorable? Why should I shoot this man in the face? Gilbert constantly had to fight the urge to scream "Because I told you so!" They sometimes reminded him of children. Annoying little children who question everything you say.

But overall, they weren't so bad. Gilbert really just had to learn to anticipate their questions. So instead of saying: "Shoot at that target", he had to say: "Shoot that target now because later when a Redcoat is twenty feet away from you holding a gun to your friend's head you can actually shoot the bastard instead of being the pathetic bitch you will be if you don't do what I say". Well, okay, maybe not in those exact words, but you get the picture.

Sure, Gilbert didn't mind the Americans, and Steuben didn't either as far as he was aware, but he had his fair share of horror stories as well. The Americans were heinously unorganized. They didn't even have a latrine! People just did their business wherever they saw fit. Gilbert may have been a blood-thirsty, raging homicidal maniac, but that was just too far.

Luckily, that little problem had quickly gotten squared away and training was progressing well on all fronts, especially—not to brag, but frankly Gilbert was all _for_ bragging—with his model brigade. They had been training for about a month now and Gilbert was sure that every single one of the soldiers hated his guts. Which was good. More than good, actually, it was fantastic. It was a secret technique passed down amongst commanding officers since time immemorial: the more pissed off your men are at you, the harder they'll work to prove themselves, and by extension, prove you wrong. Simple fucking human nature, was what it was, and it didn't help that Gilbert got to trash talk some people into the dirt. He loved every second of it.

"Come on, Private Jones. You can go faster than _that_ ", he taunted the boy as he clawed his way through the mud in this little obstacle course that Gilbert had set up. The Nation had murder in his eyes. Of course he could go faster. He could go _much_ faster. He knew it, Gilbert knew it, but they both also knew that if Jones actually _went_ faster, then it would seem almost ... inhuman. But he enjoyed being hard on Jones. It was almost like a little in joke of theirs:

"Jones, if you miss that target one more time, I swear to gott I'm going to chop your hand off with a meat cleaver".

"Alright, sir. But if you're going to do that, at least make it the left one. It'll be a lot easier to sew back on with my right".

Of course, the rest of the soldiers thought it was just a really bizarre, macabre form of humor, but they were both being completely serious, which amused Gilbert to no end.

Gilbert passed the mud, yawning practically in Jones' face, who glared daggers at him, and approached the wall. The obstacle course was Gilbert's pride and joy, and the most punishing course ever established on either side of the Atlantic. First, the soldiers had to shoot a target, then crawl through the mud under a net, as Jones was doing now, then they had to run three laps around the training grounds and a whole bunch of other tedious and awful things after that, and finally, and this was Gilbert's favorite part: they had to climb the wall. It was a wooden wall, only about seven feet high, which wasn't too difficult, except that there were absolutely no hand holds anywhere, and as Gilbert had "accidentally" neglected to tell the soldiers, coated in bees wax.

Still, however, the wall wasn't a huge challenge if you had the height for it. The soldier who was grunting with effort to reach the top, however, most certainly didn't. "God dammit", he muttered, which Gilbert was quickly learning was practically his catch phrase. Carter, that was his name, Thomas Carter, and he was a good soldier in every sense of the word. He did what he was told with startling efficiency and didn't ask questions. Though he wasn't the strongest of the soldiers, and had at best subpar endurance, he could shoot like a pro.

But on the other hand, there was something undeniably off about the boy. Of course, normal people probably wouldn't notice it at all, and even other Nations, who had had years upon years of observing people under their belts, would probably only get a vague sense of disquiet from him. But not Gilbert, oh no. Among Nations, he was specifically equipped to sniff out Carter's strange sense of oddness. This was mostly because he had basically grown up with someone who resembled Carter so terrifyingly that Gilbert consciously had to work to not call Carter by her name.

Approaching Carter, who was still having trouble with the wall, Gilbert smirked. He absolutely loved knowing things that others didn't. More specifically, he loved using the things he knew to get the most hilarious reactions out of people. "How's it going there, Carter? Having trouble?" Carter gave him a look that could have frozen the whole of the Atlantic Ocean. Gilbert himself almost froze. If this boy had been his friend, if he'd been Hungary, then Gilbert would have gotten a frying pan to the face by now.

Luckily, Carter was _not_ Hungary, and he just turned back to the wall, more determined than ever. "Do you need a boost?" Gilbert asked, right behind Carter now.

"Bite me", Carter spat.

"Sorry. What did you just say to your _commanding officer_?" Gilbert hissed, though he was secretly loving the attention.

"Sorry", Carter grunted, trying to ignore him as he made another futile attempt at the wall. "Bite me, _sir_ ".

Gilbert laughed. "Much better", he leaned in close, and then began to mutter something to Carter at a level that only he could hear. He loved telling people what he knew, but he wasn't cruel enough to let the whole world know peoples' dirty little secrets. "You have quite a tongue on you", he said, then, after a dramatic pause, " _lady_ soldier".

Carter jumped a foot in the air then, so high that he was finally able to get a grip on the top of the wall. But before he could ask how he knew or even say anything, Gilbert continued on, out of earshot, smirking viciously to himself. Sometimes, it was so fun to be mean.

Weeks past as Gilbert trained his model brigade, throwing every possible method of torture that his well-experienced mind could conceive at them. And soon, the weeks turned into months, and before he knew it, late spring was upon them. The war would soon begin anew, and with their new training, and once they had gotten their supply system in order, the Americans, who now all had the fancy blue coats of the Continental army, actually resembled real soldiers. All of this meant, unfortunately, that it was time for Gilbert to leave.

His brigade, at the very least, was ready for combat, and it seemed as if the rest of the army was as well. They marched straight, had good form, and finally behaved in every other way like those real soldiers that at first it would seem impossible to make them into. But now, somehow, they had done it. These men _were_ real soldiers, not just rebels anymore.

Jones seemed exceptionally pleased about all of this as well. It was terribly strange for Gilbert to see a Nation mixed in amongst the common soldiers, but the position really seemed to suit him well. He was becoming connected to these people, Gilbert could see it as clear as day. The soldiers he was fighting with were slowly, day by day, becoming _his_. Americans. Gilbert certainly hoped that the boy was up to the task of protecting them.

There was then a great celebration in Steuben's honor, with a parade and demonstrations and a banquet and everything. In a very different world than this, maybe all of the festivities would have been held for Gilbert instead, but this was not that world. It was best for Nations to stay in the shadows, he knew that all too well. So he stood back, alone, leaning against the side of a building far away from the hustle and bustle and watched the demonstrations, the fireworks, and smiled to himself. He had done a good job, hadn't he? Yes. He answered his own question, he had.

"Excuse me, Captain Beilschmidt, sir", Came a voice from behind him. Gilbert frowned, surprised. He had been sure that there was no one else back here. As he turned to see who had addressed him, he was sure for just a split second that it was Eliza staring up at him with that expression of singular determination, but he relaxed as he saw that it was only Carter, and let out the air he'd been holding.

Carter smiled devilishly. "If I'd known that you startle so easily, I would've got back at you sooner for all of those horrible things you call 'training exercises'".

"Very funny", he said, his frown deepening. "Now what do you want, pipsqueak?"

Rolling his eyes, obviously not about to be provoked, Carter crossed his arms, and with another pang Gilbert was once more reminded of Eliza. "I was just wondering", he hesitated, cheeks becoming pink, "Before you leave", he paused again, as if searching for the right words. "How ... how did you know? About me, I mean?"

Gilbert laughed. "If you're wondering if it's that obvious, then no, you're safe." Carter sighed, clearly relieved. "I grew up with someone a lot like you", he continued after a moment, "Her name is Eliza. You would like her".

Carter left quickly, his question answered, looking a lot happier. And finally, it was time for them to leave. The five of them: Steuben, Pontière, the two men of lesser importance, and Gilbert, saddled up their horses once again, as they had done all of those months ago. This had been fun, but frankly, Gilbert couldn't wait to get home. Besides, the beer here positively stunk. There was nothing like a good German beer.

The soldiers watched them leave, but before they were completely out of earshot, Gilbert turned back to the assembled crowd. After a moment, he found Jones, smiling broadly. He was probably glad to see him go, but he couldn't help noticing, just a twinge of sadness as well. Ha! He was still young, he'd soon realize that they would of course, see each other again. Just when and where was the question, wasn't it?

"Hey Jones", he shouted back at him, a grin spreading over his face, "Make sure to kick Britain's ass for me, will you?"

"Will do, Captain", Jones smiled back, and gave him a thumbs up above the rest of the crowd. Gilbert nodded. He was worried for the boy, it was true. He had a long, hard battle against him, and probably many more in the future. But that wasn't right now. Now, at this moment, America was smiling.

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) Friedrich Wilhelm August Heinrich Ferdinand Steuben (Wow is that a mouthful) was a Prussian Captain who found himself discharged after the Seven Years War. One has to wonder why, with his exemplary military record, he had been cut. There are rumors that he had engaged in "homosexual activities" which was a big no-no back then. Needless to say, he got the heck out of there and came to America, where he became one of the key factors in the Americans (spoilers) winning the war.

(2) This is, of course, referring to Fredrick the Great, who is much deserving of his title. He was the King of Prussia until his death in 1786. Overall, he was a great guy, leading his country to many great military victories, and promoting arts and culture.

(3) This apparently really happened, although it may just be a tale.

* * *

 _I've been participating in World Building June over on tumblr. Link to my blog is on my profile if you want to check it out. See you all next week!_


	16. The Boy who would be King

_Wow! I didn't realize quite how long this chapter was until I finished. This one is extremely intense, I was basically out of it for like five hours after writing it, so watch out!_

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

The Boy who would be King

May 18th, 1778

Lord William Howe, commander of the whole British army, the man personally responsible for their victories at Bunker Hill, New York, and Philadelphia, had resigned. He claimed that the war was hopeless, and couldn't possibly be won unless parliament sent some thirty-thousand more soldiers to America. When it refused, that had simply been that. He would _not_ be responsible for the loss of a war. He'd submitted his formal letter of resignation last October, and now finally found that it had been accepted. Howe was going home.

Arthur wished he wouldn't leave. Howe had certainly been one of the better generals that he'd had, and secretly, not even wanting to think it himself, Arthur knew that he was probably the only man who _could_ still conceivably win at this point. His replacement, Henry Clinton, had a lot of ideas, it was true, but when it came to actually executing said plans, that's when it became sketchy. He was a good commander, but could he lead an army? Arthur wasn't sure.

But Howe had been extremely popular among the troops, most of whom shared Arthur's sentiments, so a huge celebration was held in the General's honor. It was so big and grand, in fact, that it needed a special name. The "Mischianza", it was called, Italian for 'mixture', and was a day-long celebration that had absolutely everything (hence the name) from fireworks, to dancing, to jousting. Arthur quite liked the dancing, but the jousting he tried to stay away from. He'd had enough of _that_ particular sport for several lifetimes.

The party was exceptionally well attended. Anyone who had any social standing at all would have died rather than to miss this spectacular celebration. Gentlemen, ladies (oh the ladies!), even the Hessian General was there. There was so much going on that if only for a second, Arthur was able to forget the ever-increasingly awful situation that the British soldiers found themselves in, although, to be fair, the alcohol certainly didn't hurt in that respect.

Even Matthew, once Arthur had managed to drag him out of the brood-pit that he seemed to be entrenching himself deeper and deeper into these days, seemed to be having a good time. He had not one, but _two_ young ladies, both of whose names were oddly enough Peggy (1), vying for his regard, and he seemed both equally excited and bewildered at the attention. He caught Arthur's eye, and seemed to almost be begging for help as one of the Peggys, the slightly shorter, rounder one, wrapped her arm around his, but Arthur smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way and began to walk towards the pavilion where a feast would soon be held. This was one situation where you needed to be thrown into the water to learn how to swim.

Of course, being who he was, Arthur was shown to a seat right next to Howe. He was sure some of the other Generals and Colonels would be muttering under their breaths about the whole affair. Why should he, a mere Major, be seated next to the guest of honor? But they, of course, didn't know who he was. Howe did, and that was really all that mattered.

Arthur found it all so petty anyway. After a thousand years, he supposed that who was _El Capitan_ , to borrow Antonio's phrase, and who would be chosen to lead this or that campaign didn't really matter all that much to him. In fact, all of the infighting that so often occurred between his commanding officers quite frankly pissed him off. All it was doing was distracting them from the real goal here: kicking the Americans back down into the dirt where they belonged, and make bloody well sure that he didn't get up this time. They were _Arthur's_ colonies, damn it, not his, and no rebels, no matter how " _just_ " and " _noble_ " were going to take them from him.

A small crack appeared in his wine glass then, the nice crystal one, and Arthur realized that he'd been clutching it far too tightly. He brought the glass to his lips and downed the liquid before it began to leak. It was far too weak a substance for him. He wanted to get drunk, so blind stinking drunk that he could drowned out this anger that was eating him from the inside out. But not here, that would be disgraceful, and though that small, insufferable part of him was shouting to "screw propriety and bring on the whiskey", he didn't listen to it. He was here to see Howe, his commander, his friend, off, back to Merry-old-England. Would it be so hard to stay sober—well, decently sober comparatively—for a few more hours?

So, to take his mind off of that gorgeous bottle of whiskey that would be his just reward for one afternoon of normality, he tried to watch the people trickling one by one into the pavilion. The ladies with their flowing dresses—silk from China, crafted by some of the finest tailors in Europe—each looking radiant as the day, were escorted to various tables by gentlemen in polished suits or soldiers in sparkling uniform. Occasionally a Colonel or absorbently rich fellow would enter the dining hall and a little hush would fall over the seated guests in respect for the man's importance.

Looking around the tables, people were engaged in all sorts of conversations. A big man with an equally large mustache waved his arms about in grandiose gestures to illustrate his story while his wife and family laughed along. A couple stared into each other's eyes as if there was no one else in the room. Matthew was seated between the two Peggys, his cheeks pink and eyes slightly glazed over. Poor lad never could hold his alcohol; he'd have a hell of a headache tomorrow.

And then, as the crowd became silent, the man of the hour himself entered. William Howe was tall and distinguished, and seemed to naturally draw a certain kind of respect from those around him, a kind that simply could not be earned. The gathering of people began to clap their hands, but Howe shook his head. He was modest like that. Still, the crowd did not return did to their various conversations until Howe approached his seat at the head table. Arthur stood, as did all of the other Generals and important military men, and he shook his hand before they took their seats.

As the meal was served, roast duck (whoever said that the British were awful cooks was clearly mistaken (2)), Howe sighed. Arthur was worried for him. Not everyone knew it, but Howe wasn't just going home to retire, he would also have to answer for his "failure" during the Saratoga campaign. Arthur didn't see how he had _failed_. Howe had simply made a decision to not risk men's lives on a half-baked campaign that wasn't likely to succeed anyway (3). But parliament was apparently very cross with him, and expected a full explanation. Arthur hoped for his sake that his reasoning could get through parliament's thick skulls.

Howe leaned over to Arthur just then, conspiratorially. Luckily, they were probably in the safest place to talk right now on this side of the Atlantic, mostly because of the insane amount of alcohol and noise around them to mask anything they might say. "Arthur", he said, to make sure he had his attention. "There are some things I need to tell someone before I leave, and you're the only one I can trust".

"I don't know about that, sir", said Arthur, "I'm sure that there must be at least one other trustworthy person here".

Shaking his head, Howe laughed bitterly. "Not anyone who isn't more interested in his own personal gain than in actually winning the war". This, Arthur thought nervously, wasn't exactly true. He was really in it for himself just as much as the next chap. It was just that winning the war _would_ be his own personal gain. But he conveniently neglected to inform Howe about that. "You're the only British man on this blasted continent that gives a damn what happens to it".

"That is true", Arthur consented.

"I need you to take charge when I'm gone", he said, glancing from side to side as if making sure that no one was listening in. It was all fine and well to be cautious, but Arthur was sure that the war was the last thing on anyone's minds right now.

All of this was starting to make Arthur rather uncomfortable. He had never been very good at the whole "intrigue" thing, he could freely admit, even at its height during the Renaissance. He was far too straightforward for that. "I won't infringe on General Clinton's authority", he said quietly.

"Of course not", Howe reassured him, "I just need you to ... point him in the right direction", he took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. "Now that France has joined the war, Britain needs to protect her ... other assets".

"Like the Caribbean?" Arthur interjected, fully aware of the situation.

"Like the Caribbean", Howe nodded. "So parliament has ordered a withdrawal from Philadelphia to concentrate our remaining forces in New York".

Arthur frowned. "But why do that? Philadelphia is the rebel capital, after all". This city was also important for an entirely different reason, one that had nothing to do with the war, but Arthur tried his hardest to bash those thoughts to the back of his mind with a sledgehammer.

"Apparently they think it's more defendable. It _is_ on the ocean. That makes it a lot easier to get troops from place to place", Howe said, shrugging. "Anyway, any sane man would evacuate the troops by sea. The Yanks have a piss-poor navy, after all, and France is too concerned with getting supplies to the rebels, but I think that Clinton is planning to move by land".

"What?" Asked Arthur, not quite believing his ears. " _Is_ he insane? He'll get massacred!"

Howe nodded grimly in agreement, but then his eyes narrowed, considering the proposal. "Yes", he said, "But then again, the rebels certainly wouldn't anticipate it. Maybe he's hoping to catch them off guard", he shook his head, getting off topic. "Either way", he continued, "I know that nothing will change Clinton's mind about it, but you've got to make sure that he doesn't get _everyone_ killed. You know war like the back of your hand. Make sure that Clinton makes _wise decisions_ ".

By this point, the dinner had finished, and people were beginning to move outdoors to where a band had started playing. "Will do, sir", said Arthur, standing up.

"Oh, and Arthur", Howe said, getting to his feet as well, "One more thing: Parliament might not think much of it now, but we need to win this war. If we lose America, what other colonies will start getting ideas about revolution? Enough people have died".

He left then, off to join the dancers in the moonlight, leaving Arthur alone with that disturbing thought. Arthur left as well, but he did not dance. How could he, now that _that_ bugger of an idea was rattling around in his skull. What other colonies _would_ begin to rebel if America actually _won_. It was inconceivable, how could this tiny little collection of colonies possibly come together enough to even put up a fight?

Part of him still couldn't believe it. It seemed like just yesterday when he had been living right here in this city with Alfred, his colony, his _brother_? How could he leave him like this? It wasn't fair. It wasn't _right_. After everything he'd done for him! The little brat wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't for him. How could he betray him so cruelly? How could he?

 _How could he?_

Arthur's hands were clenched into fists now as he walked down the narrow, dark streets, and he grimaced, his face contorted into such a state of anger that it almost hurt. He wanted to get drunk. He wanted to find a tavern, and get drunk, and insult someone's mother, and get punched in the face. He wanted it to hurt. And then he wanted to take that fucker and knock his lights out. It wouldn't be as good as punching that no good, ruddy _brat_ a good one, but it sure as hell would be a positively peachy substitute.

Either way, someone was going to pay.

* * *

June 7th, 1778

"What?" Alfred turned to look up at Benson from where he'd been polishing his gun on a log. "The commanders want to see _me?_ What did I do?"

"Nothing, I think", Benson said, "Think they just want to talk to you about something".

"Why?" He was still just a soldier, after all, not even a lieutenant. It just seemed to be asking for trouble, in his opinion, letting a plain old Private into your secret planning session.

"I honestly don't know", Benson shrugged, "But it seemed awfully urgent".

Katerina frowned next to him on the log. She was beginning to suspect that there was something strange about him. She was smart like that. Just the other day a rogue tree branch had cut Alfred's cheek open, and Kat noticed when it had healed in just a few short minutes. She was far too clever for him to hide his secret from her for much longer. But would she even believe him if she knew the truth? Alfred didn't know what to do, so now he was attempting to use the tried and tested formula of ignoring his problem until it went away. So far, it hadn't been working.

At least Billy wasn't here for her to interrogate. When Katerina wanted answers, she sure as hell got them, and Billy would have inevitably cracked under the pressure. Alfred missed him, though, all the same. He was pretty much their rock. All of the soldiers looked to dependable, almost chronically cheerful Billy. But now he'd been moved to a different platoon after training, one under General Lee.

Alfred noticed that he himself always seemed to be put under General Washington's direct command, as if he was trying to keep him close. Maybe he didn't quite trust him. Alfred certainly wouldn't if he were him.

"I'd better get going, then", Alfred said, standing up.

Katerina got that look in her eyes then, the one that meant that she was going to try her darnedest to "accidentally overhear" the private conversation of the Generals. It was her one weakness, Alfred supposed. She had this almost obsessive need to know everyone else's business.

"Don't even think about it", said Alfred after Benson was out of earshot, off to patch someone up no doubt. He seemed to be very busy these days, with little sleep and large bags under his eyes to show for it. "They'll think you're a spy and kick you out". "Getting kicked out" was something that Alfred knew to be her worst fear. He had no idea what awaited her back in Boston, but it couldn't have been good.

"Fine", she pouted. "But I expect a full report by this evening".

"Will do, Captain", Alfred saluted, then began walking across the camp towards Washington's quarters, where the top secret "Generals Only" meeting was being held. He was actually quite grateful for Katerina. She was someone he could talk to, actually goof off with, and she understood, like him, what it was like to be on the outside of something, looking in.

He reached the door to Washington's quarters, then, and looking back once more, gave Katerina a nervous thumbs-up. She raised an eyebrow, but nodded, which he took to mean "good luck". Alfred turned the doorknob, and entered the room.

Inside, it was stuffy and dark. Five men, Washington at the head, facing the door, were standing or sitting around a table with several faded maps strewn over its rough surface. They seemed to be in the middle of some sort of argument, but stopped abruptly as the creak of the door announced Alfred's presence.

They looked over to Alfred. Alfred looked back at them. For a moment, no one said anything. "Is this him?" Asked one of them, a man with a large nose and round face, in such a tone that suggested that he was not at all impressed. Alfred shrank under the collective gaze of the five men.

"Yes", said General Washington, "This is Alfred Jones. He _is_ America". The expressions on the men's faces ranged from curious to disapproving. Alfred got the distinct impression that he had not been what they were expecting.

He hesitated at the door, frozen in place. "Come in, Mr. America. Have a seat", said one of the friendlier faces in a heavy French accent.

"J-just Alfred is fine", said Alfred, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting with trepidation. He honestly felt highly uncomfortable being referred to as "Mr. America". That, and this whole scenario combined into the added pressure that almost became too much for him, so that he was about five seconds from running away and hiding in the woods for the next million years, probably more if he could help it.

But he couldn't do that. So he just sat in that hard wooden chair and tried his hardest to act like the anthropomorphic personification he thought they wanted him to be. "We were just discussing the opposition's movements", Washington began, "There's a ship coming from France with some very ... _important_ cargo. We need to make sure with absolute certainty that the British don't get their hands on it".

Alfred leaned forward to look at the map, which seemed to be of New Jersey. "Well, this seems to be simple enough", he said. "You're trying to find a place to cut them off, right?" He scanned the map. Having lived in New Jersey before, if only for a brief amount of time due to an incident involving the mayor's little yappy Terrier and a very large tree—it was a long story—Alfred knew the area pretty well.

"Here", he said after a moment, pointing to a dot labelled "Monmouth". "It's the only town around, so they'll have to stop there for the night". The five men watched him carefully, and Alfred couldn't help noticing that Washington looked rather pleased about something. "There's bluffs all around here, so it'll be easy to ambush them. But I'm sure you already knew that". Alfred paused as all of the men stared at him with varying expressions of confusion and surprise. "So, why am I here, exactly?"

"My dear _garçon_ ", said the Frenchmen, impressed, "We've been studying this map for hours, and you just waltzed right in and pinpointed the best spot in _minutes_ ". He turned to Washington. "He's good, General".

Washington chuckled. "No, Lafayette. He's more than good. He's exactly what we need".

Feeling his cheeks going red, Alfred looked down and shrugged. "Thank you", he mumbled. It wasn't like he'd done anything special, it was just that he'd lived a lot longer, and seen much more of his land than the Generals had.

"But that still doesn't explain the logistics", said the round-faced man, who Alfred now recognized, now that he wasn't quite so nervous, as General Lee. "How many men will be needed for the operation? How many brigades?" The other men practically rolled their eyes. Alfred was beginning to gather the facts. Lee was not a very pleasant person, especially now, when he was being a stick in the mud.

"That's what we have to figure out now", Washington cut him off, his words short. Alfred gathered an immense amount of hatred between the two men. "Now Lee", Washington said, as if he was trying to force the words out of his mouth, "I'd ... _like_ you to lead a brigade of men to attack the rear".

Lee nodded. "And if Lafayette—" Washington continued, only to be cut off by Lee.

"Actually, maybe that's not the best idea".

"Fine", said Washington, face beginning to turn pink with anger, which Alfred could see plainly even in the dark. "Then Lafayette will—"

"Although maybe it's best if I—"

That settled it. He wasn't a buffoon, Lee was trying to make an ass of himself on purpose. "Lafayette will lead the rear", Washington continued over Lee, having none of his indecision.

Lee was very quickly turning red. "Fine", he said, standing up and walking out of the room, "The French twit can lead the attack, while a _real_ American does all of the work".

"Why you—" Lafayette made to stand up, but it was already too late. Lee slammed the door shut behind him.

Washington waited a moment to make sure that he was really gone, then sighed. "He's going to be trouble", the others nodded. "I just hope it doesn't cost us a victory". There was a grim silence in the room as they contemplated that outcome, and Alfred hoped that it would not come to fruition.

* * *

It was midday now, and the soldiers ran as the sounds of gunshots rang out in the distance. General Washington led them from atop his horse, a grim expression of determination on his face. Though he probably didn't want to show it, the soldiers knew that he was just as scared as the rest of them, and it gave them at least a wee bit of courage. Alfred's breath came out heavy and ragged. A messenger had ran to the reserve troops where they had been waiting, and told them that the battle was not going well.

They had actually, to Alfred's surprise, gone with his plan to attack the Redcoats at Monmouth and till now, it had gone off without a hitch, but now General Lee had made a mess of things just as Washington predicted, so he led his reserve troops to the battlefield, all of whom were propelled solely by the fear of what they would see there.

Alfred and Katerina were especially worried about Billy, who was part of General Lee's brigade. He didn't look to see, but Alfred could practically feel Kat's face twisted with worry besides him. His own heart practically leapt out of his chest with every beat as he ran, fast as he could, and he feared for the worst.

Finally, they reached the edge of the battlefield, panting and out of breath, and luckily, the Continentals didn't seem completely annihilated. They were still putting up a good fight. It seemed as if more soldiers were collapsing from the heat than by actual bullets. General Lee, was of course, not fighting, but instead commanded on high from atop his mighty stead. He wiped his face with a white handkerchief and glanced over as Washington approached.

"Ah, General Washington, sir", he said with, Alfred couldn't help noticing, a slight air of condescension. "Come to witness my great victory?" He looked exceptionally pleased with himself. Alfred seriously wondered if he was blind. What was happening out there was not a great victory at all. But if he could twist it that way, then of course he would. It was no secret that Lee thought _he_ should be the leader of the Continental army instead of Washington.

Washington, and rightly so, was far from pleased with what he saw. The messenger come to request backup must have been sent by Lafayette, for Lee had no idea why they were here, but he must have told Washington something that had highly displeased him, for he had murder in his eyes as both Generals dismounted and met each other on the ground.

"I've been told that you just got done changing the formation four times (4)", Washington began. "What is the meaning of this? I desire to know the cause of this disorder and confusion".

Lee ran a hand through his hair, which was damp with sweat, nervous. "The American troops", he swallowed, "Would not stand the British bayonets".

Laughing incredulously, Washington snarled. "You damned fool! You never even tried them! (5)"

"Sir, I... But—" Began Lee.

"But nothing", said Washington, mounting his charger once again, "I'm taking command", he road ahead a few paces to get a better view of the battlefield. "You men there", he called, "Begin setting up artillery. The rest of you", He pointed to his own reserve troops and a good portion of Lee's, "With me".

Alfred and Katerina and the rest of them followed Washington, guns at the ready. Glancing over the crowd, Alfred's gaze fell on a familiar face, and his heart leapt. "Billy!" He called and the man waved, smiling back. His face was caked with dust and sweat, but he looked relatively unharmed. "Alright, man?"

"Couldn't be better", he shouted back, but then abruptly lost sight of him as the cannons began to fall.

The loud booms were deafening, and in the dust that quickly blew into his face on impact of the cannons, Alfred could barely see the color of the soldier's coats. He couldn't tell who was who. Screams echoed dismally over the cracks of gunfire and bang of the cannons. Alfred knew only one thing: if he didn't find some cover in the next five seconds, he would be squished as flat as a pancake.

"Come on", he called to Katerina over the din, and began to make a run for the far side of the courthouse. He hoped that the wooden frame would be enough protection from the cannonballs. Standing in the shade of the tall building, Alfred wiped his brow. It was wretchedly hot, and the Continental's thick blue coats certainly weren't helping matters. Katerina joined him a second later, panting like a dog. They both stood there for a moment to get their bearings.

"You okay?" He asked her.

"Fine. You?"

"Couldn't be better". And it was then, right after the words left his mouth that Alfred looked over Kat's shoulder and saw a tall, thin man in blue, one of theirs, stagger backwards into view, his hand to his chest. Katerina, seeing where he was looking, turned as well, and watched as he went to reach for his gun. Said hand was covered in red. "Oh god", she gasped, "Is that—?"

"Benjamin", Alfred finished for her gravely. Benjamin had been one of the men in the model brigade with them, and Alfred didn't think that a single scathing word about another person, even Gilbert, had ever left his mouth.

"He's hurt", said Katerina, already moving, "The camp isn't far, we need to help—"

"Wait!" Alfred grabbed her arm, yanking her back into cover. "He's in a death zone. You go out there and you'll get shot. Or worse".

The last word hung in the air around them. Katerina shuffled from side to side in indecision, battling with herself. "We can't just leave him!" She said finally.

"We'll wait a few minutes. Those Redcoat bastards have got to run out of ammo sometime".

"If we wait he'll be dead!" And right on cue, Benjamin fell to the ground, his white shirt turned red from the hole in his chest. "You stay here if you want, but I'm going to help".

Alfred could have stopped her, _should_ have stopped her then, stopped her from running out of the small patch of safety that he himself seemed glued to, and out into a practical minefield. But at that moment, Alfred Jones made what would reign for the next one hundred and sixty-seven years as the biggest mistake of his very long life: he let her go. She simply had that look in her eyes that she got when she was determined to do something and wouldn't let anyone stop her, no way, no how.

Katerina ran out onto the battlefield and grabbed her fallen friend. The problem was that she was short and frankly not very strong, and that Benjamin was terribly tall and seemed to have twice the length of limbs that were usually allotted for one human being. Needless to say, she was struggling, and Alfred was just about to swallow his fear and help her when it happened. Katerina stopped moving. Her mouth went wide and she put a hand to her stomach. And just like Benjamin before her, it too became coated in thick, sticky red.

Life changing events, according to popular culture, always seem to happen in slow motion. The hero's best friend, that guy (or in this case, girl) that's stuck by his side for the whole story, occasionally cracking witty one-liners, is shot, or stabbed, or in some other way fatally injured, and as he (read: she) falls, it happens in slow motion, with the hero dramatically shouting "NOOOO!" like the giant twat that he is. Alfred was, in fact, the hero of our story, and Katerina _was_ the "Best Friend/Side Kick Character", but when she fell to the dry, bloodstained ground, her face frozen in surprise and terror, it was not in slow motion. Alfred _did_ scream something, though later he wasn't really sure what it had been. It could have been a giant "NOOOO!" for all we know. But that is not important. Either way, Alfred became only an observer to what happened next as instinct took over,

Without thinking, he ran out of cover and over to where she lay. He threw her over one shoulder—she groaned, still alive, thank god—and Benjamin over the other, and started running. He had to get them back to camp, had to get _her_ back to camp. She would be okay there, right? Benson would patch her up, good as new, like he had with everyone else. A bullet hit his shoulder blade. He didn't care. Another hit the back of his thigh. He didn't care. He just kept running.

Alfred almost made it to the trees and into safety when he saw something. The sight cut through the numbness that seemed to fill his bones as fresh terror ran through him instead. For there, no more than a hundred feet away from him, murderous gaze piercing through him, stood the one blond-haired man whom Alfred had hoped to never meet on the battlefield. Arthur stared him down, grimacing, practically growling, and Alfred was frozen in place by fear. But then Katerina groaned again and Alfred remembered that her life was in his hands and he ran into the woods, away from the battlefield and the green-eyed man who he had once called "Brother".

After three horrific minutes of crashing through the trees while the branches scraped across his face, looking back over his shoulder every few seconds in fear that _he_ had followed him, Alfred made it back to camp. He basically careened into the medical tent and almost knocked Benson flat on his face, who after one look at the two soldiers dangling from Alfred's shoulders like so many sacks of potatoes, helped him get them onto cots as quickly as possible.

Alfred took a deep breath. He wanted to stay here with Kat more than anything. She needed him, but he knew that he had to go back, had to face Arthur. It was stupid, he knew that. Beyond stupid. But for some reason, he just had to. Call it fate, destiny, whatever you like. All Alfred knew was that Arthur would wait for him on that battlefield for eternity if he had to.

"Benson", he began, out of breath. The doctor looked up, his face pale. "If she..." Alfred faltered, almost unable to imagine the possibility. "If she dies before I get back, I'm gonna kill her ... again", he practically growled. "Got it?"

Benson nodded grimly, and without another word, Alfred tore out of the tent and across the camp back to the battlefield. This was going to end right here and now. His heart pounded out of control, and he sucked air in and out in great gasps. The whole way back he could feel _his_ eyes on him, burning him, daring him to come out and face him like a man. Alfred didn't want to, he really didn't. But to get what he really _did_ want, there were obstacles he had to face. What he really wanted was to see the world that Arthur saw, to be his equal, to not sit in that great shadow anymore.

As he reached the edge of the forest, Alfred glanced across the battlefield. There, away in the distance, there he was, facing off against three men in blue. The only weapon in his hands was a long, thin sword, while the three Continentals, each one taller than him, had large guns. Not that they would do much good from this close. In one fluid movement that stunned Alfred, Arthur kicked the first soldier in the chest while slashing at the second with his cold steel. Then he grabbed the third by his shoulder and simply stabbed.

Arthur paused there for a moment, eyes wild, smiling even, as if he was enjoying the sensation of the hot, sticky blood that flowed between his fingers as he twisted the blade. Using his foot against the soldier's chest as leverage Arthur yanked his sword from the man's innards, who fell to the ground with a groan and didn't move. Now to finish the first, who still crouched in the dirt, trying to get his breath back after being kicked to the ground just a minute before. He put a hand up as Arthur approached, as if that would protect him. Arthur held his sword over the boy's head, savoring the moment of terror in the human's eyes, and brought it down cleanly on his neck, slicing right through the flesh like butter.

Alfred looked away as the sensation of his _own_ head being severed from his body coursed through him. He couldn't move. How was this monster the same person who had given him his name all of those years ago? That man had been kind, and thoughtful, and had a pleasant smile. He was nothing like the _demon_ that stood before him, and the smile plastered on Arthur's face now was anything _but_ pleasant.

"Is that him?" Asked a voice from behind Alfred, who jumped and reached for his gun. When he turned, however, there was no one trying to kill him. Only Washington, looking like a majestic fucking eagle atop his charger as always.

"Britain?" Alfred clarified. "Yeah".

Washington pulled his own sword from his belt. "Here", he said gravely, handing it down to Alfred. "It looks like you're going to need this".

"I—" Alfred began, then stopped. There was no more fighting against it, he realized that now. He _was_ America. He was a fucking Nation, and as much as he wished and tried to blend in with the crowd, he would never be normal. _So_ , he asked himself, _Why have I even been trying?_ If he was going to take on Arthur, then this sword was going to be his best shot, so why the hell not take it? "Thank you".

"Good luck", Washington called as he rode off, back into the fray.

Alfred took a deep breath, and turned, back to where Arthur was waiting for him. Taking one step at a time, trying his hardest not to shake, he approached the King, one Boy against an empire.

"Hullo Alfred", he said, and all at once, it came flooding back to Alfred. He could hear the leaves blowing through the trees of that woods in Pennsylvania, and almost feel the cool breeze against his skin.

 _How about William?_

 _No._

 _James?_

 _No._

 _Fergus?_

 _No way!_

 _Hmm ... How about Alfred?_

"Arthur", Alfred nodded back.

 _Can I be Arthur Kirkland too?_

"Come to kill me now, have you?" He asked, flourishing his sword so that it glowed in the sunlight. "Stab me in the back? Literally now?"

Alfred gulped. "Not exactly", he said. "All you have to do is give me my independence and we can pretend that this never happened".

Arthur laughed then, right in his face. Cold. Hard. "You think it's that easy?" He chuckled. "Do you even know how _hard_ it is to be your own country? Have you even given a second's thought to what will happen if I _do_ give you independence? You'll tear yourself apart".

Pausing, Alfred realized that no, he hadn't given any thought to it at all. If he was his own country, then gone would be the peaceful days of not having to worry about anything, of just _living_. Then again, gone would be the _hiding_ , the _fear_. It would be all up to him to keep his people safe and happy, so they could live that peaceful life that he so craved. But he shook himself. He couldn't back down now, not after so many people had died for the dream of independence. All of the people he loved. His sister, Sam, the countless soldiers that had fought and died for him, and ... and Katerina. If she died and he ran away, then her death would be for nothing. Alfred gritted his teeth and drew the sword.

"Very well", Arthur's smile faded, "Let's see just how strong you've become".

Gripping the sword, which had become sweaty from the heat and fear, and lunged at Arthur. One thing was instantly clear: Arthur had a thousand years' worth of experience with swords, he'd practically grown up with the damn things. Alfred, clearly, did not. The blade Arthur held was almost an extension of his arm, and he parried and dodged Alfred's weak, unbalanced attacks with ease.

Alfred panted, thoroughly out of breath, but Arthur remained completely unfazed. "Tired already?" He asked, smirking. "That's pathetic". Alfred lunged one more time, anger boiling in his veins, but unsteadily, and Arthur swept him to the side, sent him sprawling to the ground.

"You want to be King?" He asked, placing a boot caked with dirt and blood on Alfred's back, keeping him down in the earth. "A mere Boy could _never_ rule". He kicked him, and Alfred felt the crack of one of his ribs. But he turned over, and tried to scramble upwards. He only got as far as sitting when Arthur, grimacing, plunged the long, sharp piece of steel into his gut. A cry escaped his lips, but he didn't move, didn't say anything. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Why did you even _think_ of rebelling in the first place?" Arthur growled from an inch away, jamming the blade in up to the hilt, as deep as it could go. Alfred had long since dropped Washington's sword, and he seriously doubted that he could coordinate his fingers well enough to pick it up anyway. "How could you have even imagined that you could fight against the King of the World and _win_?" Still, Alfred didn't answer. The one thing he could keep from him was his voice. "I'll tell you why". Arthur whispered into his ear. "Because you are an arrogant, spoiled rotten _child_ ".

"I am not a child", Alfred groaned, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Tilting his head, Arthur's eyes flashed dangerously. " _What_ did you just say to me?" He asked, slowly, dangerously, twisting the sword so that Alfred could feel his guts being rearranged beneath the blade. He cried out again, in more pain than he had ever felt in his life.

"I..." He began, gritting his teeth. "Am _not_ _a child_ ". Alfred grabbed Arthur's shoulder to support himself, and with the last of his strength, drew his fist back. Arthur's eyes widened, but it was far too late. His fist connected, and Arthur's jaw cracked satisfyingly as it splintered under the immense pressure. Even wounded, weak, Alfred's strength was nothing to scoff at.

Falling backwards, Arthur lost his grip on the sword and, getting to his feet shakily, Alfred ripped it from his stomach, screaming as it took some of his innards with it. That was no problem, they'd grow back. But that didn't stop it from hurting like hell. Spots danced across his vision and blood stained his uniform as it trickled like a river from the hole in his gut. Arthur tried to stand up, but, swinging the sword with all of the force he could possibly muster, Alfred cut him straight across the chest. And it was then, right before he took a few steps away and collapsed to the ground, that he realized something:

This was the person whom Alfred had practically worshiped as a god. Unstoppable Big Brother Britain. But as the world faded around him, Alfred could think only one thing: He was only a man.

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) This actually has no historical significance, I'm just poking a little fun at the Wikipedia article that has two of the guests, both named Peggy, listed right next to each other.

(2) Of course, Arthur is extremely bias. British "cuisine" was very simple at this time, with a lot of just meat. Most British citizens around this time were most likely far more concerned with actually getting food on their plates than how it looked or was prepared. Only the very rich got nice meals like the one here.

(3) During the Saratoga campaign, which we only got to see a glimpse of, this very gung ho British General named John Burgoyne decided to cut a swath of destruction from Ticonderoga in Canada to the sea, effectively cutting off the northern colonies from everyone else, whom they kind of viewed as the ringleaders of the revolution. Unfortunately, this was the point when the colonies were actually beginning to get their shit together and the British were getting cocky. Thusly, it didn't end well. Howe neglected to send troops to meet Burgoyne in fear of losing his position at New York, and so Burgoyne, severely outnumbered, was forced to surrender to the Continental Army.

(4) One of the reasons that the Continentals didn't win Monmouth hands down was because Lee wouldn't plan a strategy, simply saying that he would wing it. Of course, that didn't work well at all, because he changed formation a bunch of times, confusing his troops, and leaving them easy targets for the British.

(5) According to Lafayette's memoirs, this conversation actually happened, and was the only time that he heard Washington swear. We don't know if that last bit's exactly true, but fun fact, either way!

* * *

 _Only four chapters remain! See you all next week for the next one!_


	17. Le Nouvel Allie (The New Ally)

_Welcome back one and all! This chapter is really short, especially compared the_ monster _from last week. It's also a little fluffier, and maybe not the best chapter I've ever written, but it kind of needed to be here for reasons._

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

Le Nouvel Allie

His eyes were glued shut, as tight as he could make them. Alfred wouldn't have opened them for anything. He just wanted to lock it all out: the hurt, the fear, and most importantly, the pain. Not the physical pain, he could deal. The most grievous of his wounds had healed quickly, though maybe not as fast as he would have liked. The inch-wide hole in his gut had shrunken to half of that size and had mostly stopped bleeding, yet in his mind, it still felt like Arthur was twisting that sword around and around the entire time he sat outside the medical tent. Waiting. _That_ kind of pain he couldn't stand.

So many things were spiraling around in his mind that he simply couldn't think straight. The Continentals had recovered well after Lee was booted from command, fighting the Redcoats to a draw, even, but it didn't feel like much of a victory to Alfred at all because so many people had lost their lived on that battlefield, and he would have been one of them if not for that little bitch known as immortality, because if not for her than Arthur would have killed him right then and there and oh god he _really_ didn't want to think about that because then all he could see was the look on Arthur's face, that deranged smirk as he twisted the sword around and around in a giant circle, oh jesus don't think about that, really don't, think of the pretty day instead gee isn't it a nice day?

No, he answered himself, it most certainly _wasn't_ a nice day, because his brother was a psychopath who hated his guts, and was also responsible for countless deaths, each one that Alfred could feel even now. You know, while we're at it, let's just stick Katerina's probable death onto the ever-growing list of people that Arthur Kirkland had killed because with Alfred's piss-poor luck, it probably _was_ his bullet that had torn straight through her like so much tissue paper.

His train of thought abruptly ceased. That was the _other_ thing that he'd been trying his hardest to not think about. But, unfortunately for Alfred, this was not a problem that could just be ignored into oblivion. She was still alive, at least as far as he was aware, and still laying in the tent. When Alfred had finally come to on the battlefield long after said battle had ended and lurched his way through the woods and back to the camp, not even looking back to see if Arthur was still there or not, he'd promptly been shouted out of the tent by stressed out doctors. He'd only caught a brief glimpse of her, and it hadn't looked good. She was out cold, paler than any healthy person could have been, and her chest shuttered up and down in irregular gasps. Alfred had tried telling that she was going to be fine, but he simply had to face up to the facts. He knew deep down that the damage was irreversible to a normal human. That she was going to...

No, he couldn't even fathom the possibility. She was going to be okay. She had to be, right? After everything the universe had taken from him, it _owed_ him one. Alfred thought that if nothing else, Kat would be able to keep breathing, keep her own heart beating in her chest, through sheer willpower alone. She was tough like that. And she couldn't ... couldn't ... well, do that _thing_ because he simply couldn't imagine life without her.

But just as Alfred had rationalized—irrationalized?—himself into a somewhat calmer state, Benson emerged from the tent. He was almost as pale as Kat had been, visibly shaking, and Alfred's heart sank in his chest. After he took a deep breath, Benson turned to him, then paused, as if he didn't quite know how to continue. "Well?" Alfred demanded, his voice cracking.

"It's", Benson said quietly, his voice hoarse. He looked like he was about to puke. "It's not good", Alfred's face fell, "She wants to see you".

Numb, not even realizing that he was doing so, Alfred stood up and, his feet like lead bricks, followed Benson into the hot dark tent. He didn't know what he was going to see, and wasn't sure if he even wanted to know.

It was oddly subdued and somber inside, as if even the men who were deep in their own minds with pain and fear to care knew that someone was about to take their last breath, and promptly shut their traps. Katerina laid on a table, a blanket over her, which was already becoming stained with red, visibly seeping into the fabric before his eyes. She didn't move, but she was not gone, not yet, her face lighting up as much as it could of under the circumstances as Alfred came into her view. "Hey Al", she croaked, smiling faintly.

"Hey", he whispered, almost not able to get that one solitary word out of his mouth. Coming closer to the table revealed the cold, clammy sweat that was covering her face, and she grimaced with effort, probably holding on with, as Alfred had guessed, sheer willpower alone. He grabbed her hand, limp, and far too cold. It raised the hair on the back of his neck, and he tried to hold back the water behind his eyes at the sight of Katerina Carter, the Strong, the Invincible, the best friend that a guy could possibly ask for, so utterly weak ... defeated.

Kat chuckled quietly at his expression, which abruptly turned into a gut-wrenching cough as a few drops of blood flew from her mouth. "Guess I'm not looking so good, huh?" She choked out.

"You look fine", he lied, "And you're going to be fine, Kat. You're going to be okay", he repeated it like a mantra. "I won't let you die". He said it just as much for himself as for her benefit.

"Liar", she said, "I'm going to die in a minute. Even I know that".

Gripping her hand tighter, as if he could squeeze more life into her, Alfred sighed. "I'm so ... so sorry Kat. I could have done something. _Should_ have done something. But ... I was just so _scared_ ", his voice broke. He couldn't continue.

"There's nothing you could have done", she muttered, then, stirring as she remembered. "Benjamin", she said with as much urgency as she could muster, "Is he okay?"

Alfred looked back to Benson, who, standing back a short ways in the doorway, nodded. "He's going to be fine".

Smiling, Katerina relaxed. "Good". She began to cough again, flecks of red appearing around her mouth. "Al", she began.

"Whoa, Kat. Save your strength".

"No, _listen_ to me", she said, surprisingly forceful. Even on her deathbed, she was still surprising him. "There's something I need you to do for me after I'm ... after I'm gone".

"Don't say that", Alfred said, still not quite able to bear the thought.

" _Listen to me, Alfred Jones_!" That promptly shut him up. "My sister", she started, "Elizabeth. If you ... if you ever meet her, I need you to promise that you'll give her a message for me".

Alfred nodded, just to keep her talking, keep her with him. "Anything".

"I need you to tell her that she was right: all soldiers die", she paused then, processing the irony of that statement, then chuckled grimly, "But that I don't give a rat's ass".

They both laughed then in an odd, grave sort of manner. Because it was true in a way. All soldiers die. Everyone had to die sometime, even Alfred. "Will do Captain", he said.

"Thank you, Alfred", she whispered. Then, she seemed to see something directly behind Alfred's head. He turned, but there was nothing there. And he watched as the light slowly left her eyes. He sat there, next to the table for a long time, and just watched. He _still_ couldn't believe it, but it was true:

Katerina Carter was dead.

* * *

The other soldiers at the camp, they themselves recovering from the recent skirmish, tried to stay clear of Alfred for the next few days, partially out of respect for his admittingly intense mourning, but also because he was seriously starting to weird them out. He just simply wasn't acting like himself. It almost seemed as if something fundamentally important to his functioning had broken. Because suddenly gung-ho, almost zealotically patriotic Jones seemed to have lost his ability to care. About anything, really.

Sure, he went through the motions: He ate, slept, maintained his equipment, and did his assignments just like always. But he seemed to have somehow lost his previous vigor. The twinkle that usually danced in his eyes had disappeared. "Your stars have gone out", Billy probably would have said, except that he wasn't here right now. He was off somewhere actually being useful, and now Kat was dead. That little, broken, make-shift family that Alfred had constructed for himself had been torn apart. Again.

Anyone else probably would have been mad as hell at the man, Nation, whatever the hell he was, who had not once, or twice, but three times had taken people from him that he loved. They'd want to avenge Kat's death, but Alfred had seen enough people die that he knew that seeking revenge would only perpetuate the cycle. Anyone else would have thought that they were lonelier than they had ever been before in their lives, but Alfred knew true loneliness, and this wasn't it. This wasn't nearly as bad as huddling in a cold, dark cave as the ominous moon rose over the trees of the endless forest, waiting, terrified, for morning with only the howling of wolves for company.

Then again, he would gladly secede that this was the most alone he'd felt in a very long time. More than anything, he just wanted someone to talk to. But there was no one on the whole damn continent who could have possibly understood what he was going through, who could even fathom the eternity that awaited him without his best friend, his family. Well, there was one person. There was Arthur, and there was simply no way that _that_ was ever going to happen. They couldn't even be in the same room, the same battlefield without trying to kill each other, let alone have a heart to heart.

Luckily for him, he wasn't entirely alone in the world. There were in fact, more people, er ... more _Nations_ on the planet that knew exactly what he was going through, and one of them had just arrived at the very camp where Alfred was stationed. You, the audience, yes you, I can see you crying at my _original character's_ death and I laugh at your tears, you have already met this Nation, and he's about to make a triumphant return. Of course, Alfred knew none of this, especially not the author's somewhat sadistic opinion of her readers. But I digress.

It was only when Benson, mourning as well in his own little way—which included heavy isolation and the squandering of various medical substances for "recreational purposes"—approached him with the news that Washington wished to see him that Alfred even knew that something was amok, let alone that that thing was a Nation. Alfred wondered briefly why Washington didn't just ask for a chat himself, before realizing that there was probably good reason. His identity as a Nation had so far remained a secret, and it was probably for the best if it stayed that way; there were spies everywhere.

"What is it _this_ time?" Alfred asked Benson, wishing that people could just leave him alone. Unless you knew what it felt like to live for more than one hundred and fifty years and _finally_ find some (non fucked-up) people who you could almost consider to be somewhat like a family, only to have it torn apart almost as quickly as it had formed, then he didn't want to talk to you.

Benson shrugged, his general manner a bit hazy at best from whatever illicit substances he was high on. "How the hell should _I_ know? I'm just passing on a message".

Shaking his head, Alfred patted Benson on the shoulder, which he barely seemed to notice. "Man. And I thought _I_ was losing it. You need to pull yourself together, dude".

"Dude?" Benson blinked a few times, looking vaguely confused. "What the _fuck_ does that mean anyway? 'S'it Dutch or somethin?"

"Yeah", said Alfred, "Something like that". He helped Benson back into the medical tent and into the hands of a qualified doctor who could probably help him down from whatever high he was on, then lingered a bit, procrastinating. He really didn't want to talk to people right now, people who expected far too much of him, and he couldn't help remembering that the last time he'd spoken to the General, he'd come up with the idea that had, inevitably, cost his best friend her life.

Eventually, however, he couldn't keep the General waiting any longer. Alfred walked across the subdued camp as slowly as he could without looking strange, and reached the door of one of the only permanent buildings in the whole camp. Knocking quietly, steeling himself to actually _talk_ to people, Alfred opened the door.

"You'll have to forgive the ... surroundings", General Washington gestured around the somewhat make-shift room as he spoke to someone whose back was turned to Alfred, looking oddly overwhelmed. Washington had a dominating personality, and tended to command the presence of the room. Whoever was able to make _him_ overwhelmed must have had a terribly strong character indeed.

"Oh, _c'est bien_ *", said the strange man in the thickest French accent that Alfred had ever heard in his life. Not that he'd really known many Frenchmen, but this man's accent was so strong that he could barely understand him, even with his weird super-special-foreign-language-understanding-Nation power. "Of course it's not like what we have back in France, but you _are_ rebels fighting _la revolution*_. You have to take what you can get, non?"

He flipped a loose strand of his long blond hair over his shoulder, and Washington chuckled nervously, not quite sure if he was being complimented or put down. He looked rather uncomfortable in the presence of this bizarre Frenchman. Alfred, meanwhile, had snuck into the room as quietly as he could, trying his hardest not to be noticed. But of course Washington, who had been seeking a way out of the room, saw him right away, his face lighting up.

"Ah, Alfred!" He said, glancing at him over the Frenchman's shoulder as Alfred froze in place, cursing himself for not being quieter. Said Frenchman positively gasped when he heard his name and spun on his heeled feet to see. He wasn't too much older than Alfred looked, maybe twenty-four, twenty-five, and Alfred promptly realized that the Frenchman was a gigantic fruitcake.

"Is this him?" He almost squealed.

"Yes", said Washington, getting tired of the constant, unending intensity which the Frenchman oozed out of every pore. "This is Alfred Jones".

"Bonjour", said the Frenchman, " _Je m'appelle_ France, but you may call me Francis Bonnefoy".

Alfred began to laugh then, unexpectedly. He understood now: the fruitcake who was so very excited to meet him was France. That gave him as excuse to be as much of a poptart—of course, Alfred didn't know what poptarts were at the time, having to wait almost two hundred years yet for their invention—as he could possibly want to in Alfred's book. However you wanted to deal with immortality was alright with him. Gilbert acted like a little shit, Arthur was pissed as hell all of the time, Francis exuded this absurd air of insanity. Whatever floated his boat.

"Nice to meet you, dude", he said, holding out his hand, which Francis shook emphatically. "I'm America. But you can just, uh, call me Alfred". He hadn't meant to, but apparently that had come out in French, as Washington looked exceedingly confused (1).

"Well", said Washington, clearly looking for a convenient exit. "Glad to see you two getting along so splendidly". He pulled Alfred aside, and whispered. "He arrived on that ship from France that I told you about". Alfred paused for a second, then nodded. He must have been the "precious cargo" on the ship that they had used Monmouth to draw the Redcoats away from.

"Apparently he came all of this way to see you", Washington continued, "He's our ally, so could you, I don't know, _entertain_ him for a few hours?"

Alfred nodded again. "Will do", he said, a smile breaking across his face, the twinkle finally beginning to return to his eyes after their long absence. Because just then, he realized something. Francis was, well, _France_ , a Nation, just like him. He of all people might just understand what Alfred was going through. He may have just found someone to talk to.

* * *

At first, Alfred had admittingly been very nervous about talking to Francis. The only other Nations he'd ever really spoken to were Arthur, and look what had happened _there_ , and Gilbert, who he'd never really had a chance to talk as equals instead of soldier and commanding officer, but Alfred really wasn't sure how great of a conversation partner he would have made anyway.

Francis, while a bit ... eccentric maybe, was pretty much the friendliest person that Alfred had met in a long time. "Oh it has been so long since I've met a Nation so young", Francis exclaimed, "You can even call me Big Brother! Half of Europe does anyway. At least, I _wish_ they would". Yeah, _very_ eccentric. And possibly hitting on him? That really weirded Alfred out, like a _lot_ (2) Then again, maybe stuff like this was different for Nations than for normal people. Alfred wouldn't know, he'd been too young to ask Arthur, his primary source of information of that sort, about it. Then again, Francis could very well have just been acting very, very French. They always seemed like they were flirting with absolutely everyone.

So he took him around to see the camp, which Francis couldn't help but call "quaint", and asked him some questions about Nations which he had been dying to know the answers to, and Francis tried to answer as best as he could. He was only about as knowledgeable as it seemed that Arthur had been, however, so there were many things that he did not get the answers to. Then again, maybe _no one_ knew the answers.

Inevitably, of course, they came to the topic of the war, and Francis became surprisingly sober. "I wonder, just how far is the battlefield from here?" He asked with unexpected tact. It was true that calling Monmouth a "sore spot" for Alfred would be an understatement, but oddly enough, it was more of a relief than anything to be able to talk about it with someone, especially when that someone actually understood what it felt like to watch and _feel_ a thousand deaths at once.

"It's only a short walk from here", said Alfred hesitantly, "Why?"

"Well", Francis began, thinking hard about his phrasing, "I was hoping, if it isn't too hard for you, if maybe you'd take me to see it".

Alfred paused. Could he go back? And more importantly, if he did, would his nightmares come back to haunt him in his waking hours too? But then again, talking to Francis, just being with someone, _anyone_ like him made him feel saner than he had in months, maybe even years. He might be alright if he went back.

"Sure", he said finally.

Francis beamed. "Oh, _très bien*_!" he said as Alfred led him through the woods towards the battlefield, the sun setting behind the trees, which cast a pale, orange light on the forest floor. "Rumor and speculation of your 'confrontation' are abound back in Europe".

"Yeah?" Alfred asked, smiling a little. He wondered just how much the rumors had stretched the truth of it all, or, for that matter, how they'd gotten all of the way to Europe in the first place. "What do they say?"

"That you punched him in the face".

He laughed so hard that it almost shook the trees. Put in so blunt of terms, and with the sheer glee that Francis stated it, it was pretty funny. And it was true. He _had_ punched him in the face, hadn't he? Alfred had clocked the King of the World right in the gob and lived to tell about it. That in itself was pretty impressive, wasn't it?

"That's right", he boasted as Francis' eyes lit up. Then, he remembered the other bit. "But only after he, uh, kinda stabbed me through the gut and stuff".

Eyebrows raised, Francis asked: "Wait _un moment_. You are telling me that you _sword fought_ him? You do realize that he is probably the best with _l'épée*_ in the world, right?"

"Yeah", said Alfred, "And I've got the scar to prove it".

By this time, they had emerged from the trees and now stood overlooking the battlefield for a bluff. Alfred could have taken him straight down there, but this location afforded them a better view. Plus, Alfred was pretty sure that if he actually stepped foot on that ground again, he'd probably puke. The stars were coming out as they both surveyed the land below, which was so gray and devastated that it almost looked as if it had been set ablaze.

" _Mon Dieu*_ ", Francis muttered in awe, "There was certainly a battle here, wasn't there?"

Alfred laughed bitterly. "You weren't in it".

"Non", said Francis, "This is true. However, I have been in many a battle against Arthur before."

"Then you know just how fucking scary it is".

"Scary?" Francis retorted, and Alfred thought for just a second that he was mocking him. But then: "It's downright terrifying. He may usually resemble an angry hedgehog, but when that man fights, it is not pretty". He crouched then, and sat on the edge of the bluff, looking off into the encroaching night.

Alfred grunted his appreciation of that very true statement, but then paused. "Francis", he said finally, sitting beside him. "You've known Arthur for a long time..."

"Almost all of my life", Francis nodded, "We practically grew up together".

"Do you have any idea _why_ he's so angry?"

This time it was Francis' turn to pause. "I'm not really sure", he began. "He's just always been like that, at least as long as _I've_ known him". He took a moment, frowned. "I suppose Antonio and I kicked him around quite a bit".

"Antonio?" Asked Alfred. "He's ... Spain, right?"

"Oui", Francis replied. "It's funny", he continued, waxing lyrically now, which was a very Francis thing to do, Alfred realized. "I remember telling all of this to Mathieu not that long ago".

"Mathieu?" Alfred had never heard of a Nation named Mathieu.

"Canada".

Canada? So they had a personification too. Alfred didn't think he'd ever met him, which was strange now that he thought about it, considering that they were practically next door neighbors. Wait, now. Something was coming to him: _A snowy white landscape surrounded him. His sister waved to someone, another woman and a child who..._

Nope. It was gone. He couldn't really remember. But he did know one thing. "He's fighting in the side of the British", he observed.

"Oui", Francis looked down, losing some of his previous bravado. "The Seven Year's War. I wasn't strong enough, and so Arthur took him from me. So now by helping you win this _guerre d'indépendance_ *, I can take something from him".

"It's just kind of an endless cycle with you two, isn't it?"

Francis nodded, looking back up at the sky where the stars were emerging from the gloom. They seemed to be twinkling extra brightly tonight. "You know", he said, "After everything I've witnessed: The wars, the advancements, the _changes_ , it still amazes me that I can look up at the same sky that I saw a thousand years ago".

Alfred thought about it for a second. "Yeah", he said, "They were here even before any of us, and I guess they'll still be here after we've all disappeared."

Francis chuckled. "Of all of the people and things in this world, only the stars are eternal..."

And so the two of them, each in his own little world, sat on that bluff in silence, watching the unchanging sky that would be there long after they would. Because like all things, the Nations knew that there was a time when even they would come to an end, and only the stars would be there to remember them.

* * *

 **Le French:**

C'est bien – It's fine

La revolution – The revolution

Tres bien – Very good

L'epee – The sword

Mon Dieu – My god

guerre d'indépendance – War of independence

* * *

 **Historical Notes** :

(1) I just looked this up. According to Google, which may or may not be correct, most of the founding fathers knew at least four languages, and then there's Washington, who only knew English. Thought that was just a weird little fact.

(2) Because remember dear children, being gay was considered a _sin_ back then in ye olden days, but Francis, so of course he doesn't give a rat's ass.

* * *

 _Yeah. I killed her. I'm sorry it had to happen! Is it bad that I also named her after my younger cousin? Her mom is going to be so pissed at me. After she stops crying her eyes out, that is._

 _Three chapters left! (Technically one of them is an epilogue, but it will be full length-ish) See you next week!_


	18. The View from Across the Pond

_Oooo, this chapter was fun! I've been teasing some things for a while and I finally get to talk about them! Yay! Anyway, enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

The View from Across the Pond

Arthur was mad. No, that was an understatement. Arthur had been mad before. Now he was furious. He had bloody well gone and punched him in the face, the little brat had really done it. The literal cuff, of course, wasn't the problem. That was fine. Sure, his jaw had been a wee bit out of whack for a few days—he'd forgotten just how strong the boy was—but that was no big deal. It was the principle of the whole thing; that this little collection of disorganized colonies had the balls to waltz right up and punch him, the greatest empire the world had ever seen, right in the jaw.

Okay, well, maybe he _had_ sort of stabbed him in the gut with a sharp piece of metal, so maybe he did kind of deserve that swipe across the chest, but that punch had just been taking it too far. Either way, that _brat_ was going to pay, dearly, with as many casualties on his side as was possible, that much was certain. Arthur would _make_ it happen.

He didn't remember much from after the battle, only brief flashes of confusion and pain. He knew that someone had carried him from the battlefield after they'd realized that he was still alive, and that what remained of the forces retreating from Philadelphia had somehow made it across the river into New York without further harassment from the rebels. When he'd finally come to, it had been in the city, in an infirmary with the other wounded soldiers.

At first, he'd been a little confused. Where the hell was he? Then, it all came back to him: Monmouth, the fear and agony of the sudden ambush as his comrades began to drop like flies around him, and worst of all, that smug little _child_ , who dared to say a word against him, dared to drag them both into this tantrum that had erupted violently into a war. The anger, that great beast that enjoyed nothing more than twisting his guts into knots, swiftly returned. He sat up, unraveling the soiled bandage from around his chest. The wound was gone, of course, and someone in one of the other beds must have heard the noise, for he stirred and groaned in pain.

"You can very well shut up", Arthur muttered, not even bothering to see just who the soldier was. "You don't know what pain feels like". Ow. He probed the left side of his jaw gently. That really hurt. Damn that strength of his. It wasn't fair, really, that a spoiled rotten brat like that had the strength of ten men and Arthur had nothing special about himself what-so-ever.

That wasn't true, though. Arthur had his sword, and his mind, and with those things alone he had forged an empire. So how was this brat who had life handed to him on a silver platter even able to compete with him? How could he possibly put up a fight? It wasn't possible. And yet, somehow, it was happening. Somehow, he was losing.

He blamed poor leadership for this whole fiasco. Howe had been right; it had been an undeniable error evacuate by land, and just whose idea had that been? _Henry Ruddy Clinton_. The man didn't even deserve the title of General.

So Arthur made up his mind right then and there to track down the man and give him a firm talking to as soon was humanely possible. He searched around the general area for his effects. His shirt—unwearable now that it had a big slice down the front, but he discretely swiped another from the soldier who lay in the cot next to him—and red coat were strewn over the end of the bed, and his sword was, as expected, leaning in its sheath against the bedside table.

No one had brought it back from the battlefield. With Arthur as out of it as he was and the chaos of the aftermath, no one would have known that he'd even _had_ the sword, let alone where amidst the carnage to find it. It just had a habit of showing up when he needed it. He'd acquired it such a very long time ago, and treasured it like a childhood toy that is old and moldy, and that you should probably throw away, but can never quite manage to get rid of it. This sword was far from "old and moldy", however, as Arthur had maintained it scrupulously over the millennium that he'd had it, and it showed. All who laid eyes on it could have sworn that it shown brighter than any sword they'd ever seen (1).

It had taken many forms over the years, having appeared as everything from a knife to a broadsword. Arthur didn't know exactly why the sword was like that, all he knew was that it just was as he wanted, or maybe needed it to be. But he liked it best as a rapier. It was thin and light, and absolutely deadly in the hands of a skilled swordsman like Arthur. Maybe he'd use it to cut Clinton a new one.

Having no idea where anyone in the infirmary was, and not caring to wait around long enough to find a nurse or doctor, Arthur simply walked out onto the busy streets of New York. No one stopped him, so what was the point in hanging around? Now, if he was Clinton, where would _he_ be hiding? Probably the governor's, which was serving as the Redcoat's headquarters for the time being. So he set a course down the flooded avenue towards what he _thought_ was the right direction and started walking.

People took care to avoid him as he made his way through the city. It was probably the bright red of his coat, which while certainly useful in battle for telling your men apart from the enemy, was not quite as helpful in the city, where it made you stand out like a sore thumb amidst the faded colors of the civilians, most of whom couldn't even dream of affording something so lavish as his coat.

New York, it was true, had become positively flooded with loyalists now that it had become the bastion of British rule in the colonies, but it still had its fair share of Yanks who were unable or simply too stubborn to leave. Thusly, Arthur got more than what he was pretty sure was his fair share of dirty looks as he passed by the taverns and shops that lined this main thoroughfare. He was pretty sure that one old woman even spit on the ground at the sight of him. But why the bloody hell should he care? He was the Immortal Britain. That old crone would probably be dead within the year, and he would live forever. So he just stuck his nose in the air and kept walking.

Eventually, after getting lost twice—Arthur would freely admit that he wasn't as familiar with New York as, say, London—he found the governor's mansion. It was a grand old building, made mostly of marble with a green slate roof, squeezed in between the other, lesser buildings of the city. Without hesitation, Arthur climbed the few stone steps and entered through the old, creaky wooden door.

Clinton was lounging—though that might have not been the exact wording—in the study, Arthur was told by a servant, a small, mousy maid who's voice trembled as she spoke. Arthur proceeded there immediately without another word, ready to give the telling off of a lifetime. Letting the anger that he'd been holding back so carefully flare up inside him, Arthur shoved open the study door and stalked into the quiet room.

As it turned out, Clinton had been waiting for him. He sat behind the desk in the study, looking obnoxiously calm, like he knew something that Arthur didn't. Arthur looked at said desk with disdain. You could tell a lot about a man from his desk, and Clinton's was as tidy as a ... well, as a tidy desk _could_ be, with all of his papers and writing utensils resting in neat stacks, everything in its place. Any General worth his salt, who'd actually given any thought at all to the war at hand, would have had everything in such a disorder that it would take twice as long to get anything done, mostly because half of that time would be spend rustling through the contents for that one particular map or document.

"Hello Arthur", said Clinton, his round looking even more smug now that he could plainly see just how pissed off Arthur was. "I can't exactly see that this is a surprise".

"You've been expecting me", Arthur grunted, gesturing to the blazing fire in the hearth, and the specifically uncomfortable looking chair placed on the other side of the desk.

Clinton nodded. "Have a seat". Arthur stared at him for a second, almost growling. That must have been an order. He knew it. He would _not_ , no way no how, be ordered around by this _idiot_. But after a moment he plopped into the chair, grumbling to himself. "I suppose you've come to discuss my decisions as commander".

"Indeed I have", Arthur spat, "I believe that you, my good sir, have some explaining to do".

"And _I_ believe that you need to cool you're head", he said, still infuriatingly calm, "But we can't all get what we want, can we? Oh, wait", Clinton continued with mock realization, "I do believe, _Major_ Kirkland, that I am your commanding officer. So I suppose that _I_ , at the very least, can".

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"What I mean", Clinton smirked, sitting forward in his chair, "Is that I can assign you to some remote desert half-way across the world if I so wish. So to prevent my ears from being shouted off, I'm reassigning you".

"Wha'?" Asked Arthur, then cursed himself. He hated it, but he tended to slip into a more unbecoming accent for a gentleman such as himself when he was becoming dangerously close to losing it.

"Yes. You heard me", said Clinton. "To a ship that's just sitting in the harbor, doing absolutely _nothing_ ". Arthur's eyes widened. "Oh yes, I've done my research", Clinton smiled maliciously, "I know exactly what you can't stand. And let's see, ah yes, 'boredom' is sitting here right at the top of the list. So, until you've learned to control that temper of yours, I'm afraid that you're just going to have to sit in that harbor, waiting for an order that is never going to come".

"But", Arthur sputtered, his face turning bright red. "You can't do this ta me! Ah'm Bloody _Britain_! You _need_ me".

"On the contrary", said Clinton, "I do believe that I can".

Arthur couldn't believe it. The man was so intent on saving his own hide that he would purposely exile his best asset, a soldier who can't die, to a place where he is _completely useless_. Howe would have never let this happen. But, alas, there was nothing he could do about it now. Clinton was, unfortunately, his commanding officer. So, two days later, though positively fuming, Arthur found himself dumped right back onto a ship once again.

* * *

Matthew, as it turns out, also found himself dumped, without pomp or ceremony, onto a ship two days later. The _same_ ship, in fact. He hadn't been told exactly what he was to be doing aboard an idle ship which was just floating in the sea surrounding New York, having been reassured that he'd most definitely "Figure it out when he got there". There was something malicious in that statement, and Matthew didn't like it in the least.

He didn't like being stationed so far from home, but what else could he do? The order was given, it was final, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. So he'd travelled down to New York harbor where he was to meet the captain of the vessel. As he stood, waiting on the dock, he couldn't help noticing the name of the ship painting in gold lettering on the side. "The Remembrance", it was called. Matthew like to read, and couldn't help but think that if this was a novel or a play, then that name would have been a rather heavy-handed application of foreshadowing. It was a good name for a boat in a novel, properly shady and ominous. Luckily, this was not one of Matthew's books. This was real life, right?

A slew of somewhat muffled curse words came floating down the dock, and shook Matthew from his thoughts. He looked back to see just who was producing the racket, and his heart sank to his knees. This _was_ one of Matthew's novels, one with amazingly accurate foreshadowing, at that. For there, being escorted (read: dragged bodily) down the dock by two soldiers, swearing his head off and looking positively ticked off, was none other than Major Arthur _Bloody_ Kirkland. "The Remembrance". He shook his head. Yeah, sure, remembrance of a lot of unpleasant things that he'd rather forget about.

"Is that—?" He began, turning to one of the Redcoated sailors who stood beside him, eyebrows raised.

"The Captain?" The sailor finished for him. "I do believe so".

"Well, this is just great, eh?" Said Matthew, more to himself than for anyone else's benefit. Because he knew exactly what his job was now: Inevitably, one of the higher-ups had gotten sick of Arthur's temper, and exiled him to the sea, maybe hoping that his temperature would cool down about a thousand degrees. Unfortunately for them, they had gotten it wrong. This was the worst thing that they could have possibly done. Matthew was here to make sure that he didn't do anything stupid, nothing more than a glorified babysitter. Only one thing was certain: this was going to be one _long_ exile.

This statement, though Matthew had hoped that it wouldn't, quickly proved itself to be completely true. As the slow days passed by, the ship just bobbing along, anchored to the ocean bottom, nothing occurred to lighten Arthur's mood in the slightest, which in turn made Matthew's humor as black as the bottom of an abyss. The worst part was that there was absolutely no alcohol to be found anywhere on the ship. At all. Not that Matthew cared much, he didn't really drink, but it just made Arthur that much more unbearable. At least when he was drunk he wasn't quite as mad all of the time. But now that he was deprived of what Matthew was pretty sure was the one thing that kept him going, the crew felt the full wrath of his anger at all hours.

It certainly didn't help matters that there was nothing to do. At all. They were commanding as idle ship with no orders other than to wait in the ocean. Their ship was a glass bottle floating amongst the placid waves, able to look out at the world just beyond the horizon but unable to do anything until someone found it and popped the cork.

Arthur mostly stayed in his cabin, no doubt brooding to himself. This was good, because Matthew wanted to be in his presence for the least amount of time that was physically possible. Once again, he cursed the higher-up who hated Arthur's guts enough to take away the alcohol. Selfish bastard. He, whoever he was, didn't realize that it was just as much of a punishment to the crew, who had to _put up_ with him as it was for Arthur himself. Because on the odd chance that he _did_ make an appearance, he was able to demonstrate the full, undiluted power of his rage uninhibited.

Often, he would emerge from his rage-pit on the most random of occasions and stalk across the deck of the ship, muttering obscenities to himself. He would, every time without fail, stop at the port railing and just stand there, gazing at the harbor, still just a short distance away, with so much hatred that Matthew was frankly surprised the whole city didn't start burning. He often muttered things as well, and though Matthew couldn't make out most of it, he didn't dare get close enough, he could have sworn that on multiple occasions he'd heard the phrase "ruddy brat", and there was only one person who _that_ could be. He would then close himself up in his cabin again without a word to anyone.

Matthew tried to keep himself occupied, but there was absolutely nothing to do. He'd only brought one book, thinking that he could do with a bit of light reading at nights, and he'd read through that one _three_ times now. So when Arthur next emerged from his cabin again, going through the exact same motions for the third time that day, Matthew couldn't stand it anymore.

"Would you _please_ stop that", he pleaded, and Arthur paused for a second, then turned in his direction. Matthew immediately knew that he'd made a mistake. Arthur looked about ready to slap him for interrupting his bizarre ritual.

"Sorry, what?" He asked, just the tiniest hint of malice detectable in his tones.

"The ... uh, j-just the um, the pacing and muttering", Matthew said, quieter this time. "It ... it's driving me up the wall".

"Oh?" He growled, his lip curling up to reveal his yellow teeth. He began to walk towards Matthew, who stood up and tried to move away, but bumped against the side of the ship. He shouldn't have said anything. Matthew had conveniently forgotten that he was on a tiny boat with nowhere to run. " _Is it?_ Is it annoying you? The fact that _I'm_ currently fighting a war against a pathetic _child_ and _losing_ frankly annoys me too, but you don't see _me_ complaining about it, do you?"

"You just did", the words were out of his mouth before Matthew could stop them.

Arthur's laughed then. But it wasn't a nice laugh. It was a laugh that Matthew hoped to never hear again in all of his years. "Sorry. I believe I've grown quite deaf. _What_ did you just say?"

"N-nothing", Matthew managed to squeak out.

"Nothing?" Asked Arthur, his face an inch away from Matthew's. "I could've sworn that I heard you say something positively _nasty_ to me, your only brother".

"No, no! It was—"

Pointing an accusing finger at him, Arthur snarled. "You're no better than _him_. Both of you are just lying, spoiled rotten children. Why do you all have to leave me?" He shouted, thoroughly scary Matthew now. Was he out of his mind? "Why couldn't you have just stayed small and done what you were told? Because now it has come to this. Now people are getting hurt because you just had to beg for independence, didn't you Alfred?"

Matthew's eyes widened. He really had lost his marbles. Arthur _had_ told him before that he looked a lot like America, but he'd been drunk. Matthew hadn't been inclined to believe him. But now there was no alcohol in sight.

"I am _not_ him!" Matthew screamed. He couldn't stand it any longer. He wasn't Alfred, no matter how much Arthur wanted to pretend or wish he was. He was _not_ about to be tossed around as a surrogate because Arthur didn't have the balls to tell it to the man himself.

Arthur paused, shocked. They stood there for a moment, neither one daring to say anything. Then, Arthur shook himself and frowned. "You're right", he said, almost accusingly, "You're not". And without another word, he turned and walked back into his cabin, leaving Matthew out on the dock alone.

* * *

Arthur couldn't stand being on this ship a minute longer. It was like a prison, it _was_ a bloody prison, really. Arthur Kirkland's personal hell: Alone with his thoughts, and without a drop of alcohol in sight to stave off the boredom. He sat in front of the desk in his cabin, his head resting on the hard wood, burrowed in his arms to make a dark little hidey-hole. If he had to be on this godforsaken ship for a day longer then he thought that he would probably explode. And it wouldn't be pretty. He wanted to die. He _wished_ he could die, but there was really no point in even trying, was there?

That was when he heard a squeak emanating from somewhere in the cabin. Rats. Arthur shuddered. Almost every Nation in Europe had grown to fear rats since the plague. That was, excepting Poland of course. How he alone had managed to keep the plague out was a mystery to him. And he certainly wasn't giving away trade secrets (2). But something about the noise interested him: It had come from underneath him. Not like it was down in the hold, but directly under his feet.

Leaning down, Arthur rapped his knuckles on the floorboards. Maybe he was crazy, but he had a hunch, one which turned out to be correct. One of the floorboards sounded hollow, like there was something beneath it. Grunting, he managed to pull it free and there, low and behold, was the jackpot. For under the floorboard the previous captain had left a secret stash of what else? Whiskey. Arthur blew on the bottle, clearing away the cobwebs, and coughed a little. But, regardless how old, whiskey was still whiskey. Maybe just a little stronger. As a tear came to his eye, he knew that it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Maybe tonight wouldn't be quite so unbearable after all.

(I)(N)( )(T)(H)(E)( )(P)(A)(S)(T)

 _Little Britain lived with his siblings on the island, floating in the middle of Ocean. It was a big island, so big that even he had trouble keeping track of it all. There were forests and marches, hills and cliffs, and it wasn't "his" yet, but he knew that someday it would be. But he hoped that that day didn't come anytime soon, because he was perfectly content to play and laugh with his family and not have to worry about anything at all._

 _There were five of them in Britain's family, and they kept each other safe. Wales was the baby of the family, the youngest who looked barely over five, though he was really much older than that. Then there was Ireland, the girl, who was about eight, and boy was she scary. If she caught her with her disapproving look, then you were in trouble. That look could freeze rivers whole. Then, of course, there was Britain, who could have quite the temper if he wanted. Of the children, the oldest was Scotland, who had bright, flaming red hair and came in at about thirteen. He tended to look after the rest of them where Big Sister was away._

 _And then, of course, was the woman herself. Their caretaker, storyteller, and partner in crime, and they all adored her. She practiced sword fighting with Scotland, taught Ireland how to hunt, and put up with Wales when he insisted on tracing the fanciful designs of the blue war paint smeared across her face. But what Britain liked best where her stories._

 _Sometimes, when storms raged or the night was especially dark and frightful, or when little Wales had become scared by the howling wolves, Big Sister would sit them all down and tell them stories. Tales of the god Lugh and all of the mischief he would get up to, or the Dagda's harp, Uaithne. Tales of the fairies and spirits that lived in the forest. Even Scotland, who often considered himself too "grown up" for childish things, would listen, enraptured, by Big Sister's calm, melodic voice as it echoed around the hut, or cave, or tree, or whatever place they found themselves in that night._

 _Britain was happy with his family on the island, and he never realized how much he had taken those days for granted until they were gone. Because one day, everything changed for Britain and his family_ _(3)_ _. One day the strange men came from over the sea._

 _They had been here before, once, a long time ago, but Britain hardly remembered them. They were there one day, and gone the next. But what Britain_ did _remember was that they were not like Big Sister's people, who were quiet and kind to Britain's family. These men were tall and strong, and spoke in strange tongues that Britain didn't know. Britain didn't like them in the least, and clung to Big Sister as the men landed._

 _"_ _Qui tu ēs*?" Asked one of them, who seemed to be the leader, as he walked towards her, up the rocky shore._

 _Big Sister seemed to be able to understand them, and replied. "Ego sum Britannia*. This is my land. You Romans are not welcome here"._

 _The leader frowned. He could not understand her. One of the other men from the boat stepped beside the leader, his dark, curly hair blowing in the sea breeze. "Ego temptobo*". The leader nodded, and the man stepped forward. "I am Rome", he said, "I have come to conquor your land and make these isles part of my empire". Big Sister bared her teeth, and Ireland gasped. "I'm giving you the opportunity to surender now, without bloodshed"._

 _"_ _Never", Big Sister growled_ _. That was the moment that changed Britain's life. After that, there was no playing and laughing in the meadows, no climbing the cliffs and racing to see who could make it to the top first. All that Britain's family could do was run. Run away from the bloodshed and carnage. There were still stories, but now they were only told in hushed whispers to keep the children quiet._

 _Scotland hated it, the constant running. He wanted to fight the invaders head on, but Big Sister wouldn't allow it. "You're still a child", she told him, and he would argue, but that was that. When Big Sister made up her mind, there was no changing it._

 _When asked about it later, Britain could never remember much from this part of his life. It all seemed to be nothing more than one big blur of fear and exhaustion. He remembered Big Sister going to fight, and the children huddled together in a cave, trying to keep warm and quiet, but that was all._

 _And then suddenly, as soon as it had begun, one day it was over. The invaders to their peaceful island, these "Romans" as Big Sister had called them, had murdered so many of her people in cold blood, and easily over-powered the rest, but they couldn't kill Big Sister. So, blood pouring from her mouth, growling like a wounded animal, they had put metal around her hands, and did the same with the children, all chained together into a line, then took them through the forest to a large stone building that had not been built by Big Sister's people._

 _The metal weighed Britain's hands down so much that he couldn't even wipe his tears away as they were paraded into the stone hut, and into a room with iron bars for walls. It was there that they left them. And it was there that they stayed for a long time._

 _Britain had never been very good at keeping track of the time, but here in the dark, it was next to impossible. They could have been here for only hours, or days, or it could have been years. At first, Big Sister tried her best to keep them calm and happy. She told them stories until her voice was hoarse and their ears were numb. But slowly, it seemed as if a change had come over her, and Britain slowly came upon the realization that she was_ scared _. Big Sister was_ never _scared. Something was very wrong._

 _Then, he saw it. Big Sister went to push a piece of her red, braided hair out of her eyes, but her hand was simply not there. It had disappeared. "Big Sister!" Britain cried. "Your hand!"_

 _"_ _Shh", she said, "I know". The children huddled closer, each one shaking. What was happening to their immortal protector? She began to whisper to them quietly. "Alright, children. I don't have much time left"._

 _"_ _What do you mean?" Ireland squeaked._

 _"_ _I mean", she continued firmly, having none of these interruptions, "That I'm going to ... disappear". Wales started to cry, and Ireland shushed him. Scotland just stared, seemingly not able to produce sounds, let alone actual words. ""Just remember you lot, that wherever you are or whatever you choose to do, that I will always love you. Got that?" They nodded solemnly. Her voice was beginning to crack now. "Scotland", she instructed, "When I'm gone, I need you to keep your siblings safe. Can you do that?"_

 _"_ _I—", Scotland struggled._

 _"_ _Can you do that!?" She repeated, louder this time, almost desperate._

 _"_ _Ai", Scotland struggled, his voice shaking._

 _"_ _Good", she smiled. And then, she was gone. Just like that. No sparkles, no shimmers of light. Just gone. And the children were alone._

 _They sat there, in the dark and cold, for a long time after that. No one able to say anything. Britain was pretty sure that Scotland was crying, but he didn't ask. Occasionally, one of the Romans would toss some food at them through the bars, but they rarely ate it. It wasn't like they needed to eat, anyway._

 _Then one day, just like Big Sister, they were gone. The Romans had disappeared, left the island in there big boats. And miraculously, Britain found the door to their cell open. So the siblings, what remained of their little family, grabbed each other's hands, Ireland gripped Britain's so tightly that he thought she might break it, and walked outside. It was their land now, after all._

 _Britain had to hold an arm against the bright sunlight, it had been so long since he'd been outside and felt the heat on his skin and breathed in the fresh air. He smiled, but it was a small, bittersweet thing, because no matter how similar this might seem, or how much he wished for it, nothing could ever really go back to the way it was before._

 _For a while, though, the children tried to pretend that they could. They lived together just as they had before the Romans came, but it made them sad. Because it wasn't quite right. There were no stories now. The children, Britain especially, tried, but with a shock, they found that they couldn't remember them. Big Sister had kept them all together, and with her gone, the children found the sight of their siblings to remind them too much of all that they had lost. And like it or not, they were growing up, and growing apart._

 _Scotland left first. He'd known Big Sister the longest out of any of them, and it was hardest for him. "You promised!" Britain screamed at him, as Ireland and Wales huddled behind. "You promised Big Sister that you'd stay with us!"_

 _"_ _Yeah?" Said Scotland, his voice deep and lower now than it had been before. "Well, she's fookin' dead now, isn't she?"_

 _Wales left next. He'd been so young when they'd all lived together as a family, when they'd been happy, that he didn't remember. He found himself living amongst strangers who he'd only remembered pain with._

 _So it was down to Britain and Ireland, but she soon also became lonely without their siblings, and being around Britain had started to become unbearable, because he was becoming so_ angry _, and it scared her. She loved him, but she had to leave. Across the sea, out to her own island, she rowed a boat to, and left him all alone. Britain watched her go until she became lost in the waves._

 _And then Britain was alone with himself, and fear turned to sadness very quickly turned to anger. How could they leave him all alone like this? He hated them: Scotland and Wales. And Ireland. He hated her too. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. So maybe life wasn't fair then. Maybe it was pointlessly cruel and meaningless and came down to simple survival of the fittest._

 _If so, then so be it._

 _He had almost come to terms with this when he was invaded again_ _(4)_ _._

(W)(A)(K)(E)( )(U)(P)(,)( )(A)(R)(T)(H)(U)(R)

When Arthur awoke, the now empty bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand, tears were streaming down his face. Damn. He was going to save some of that precious liquid, wasn't he? Oh well, it was too late now, wasn't it? Too late to fix things. He was always too late, wasn't he? Yes. Yes he was. That was the last thing he thought before he passed out again.

* * *

 **Historical Notes** :

(1) I'm not going to say that it's Excalibur, but it's Excalibur.

(2) With hygiene.

(3) When the Fire Nation attacked! Haha, no but really. I'm not an Avatar person, so I really don't know, but I think comparing the Fire Nation to the Romans is not a bad analogy.

(4) Bonjour. Honhonhon.

* * *

 **Latin, Wonderful Latin!:  
** Note: The few languages I've used in this story before I really haven't known much of, so I've used Google Translate to help me out. I do, however, know Latin. So I'm a lot more confident with it, and didn't even need to use GT!

Qui tu ēs – Who are you?

Ego sum – I am

Ego Temptobo – I will try

* * *

 _Yes! I finally got to talk about Arthur's back story! Actually, I wasn't originally planning on telling about it because I hadn't really thought about that part of Arthur's life. But then I thought about it more and more, and it worked out to include it. I'm really glad it did,_

 _Only two chapters left until I'm done with this story! I've had so much fun, but I'm ready for it to be finished. See you all next week!_


	19. The Man with Stars in his Eyes

_Ahhh! It;s the last chapter! Well, okay, there's going to be an epilogue, but this is the big climax!_

 _I've had a great time going on this journey with you all, so please enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

The Man with Stars in His Eyes

"Here lies the body of John Crow,  
Who once was high, but now is low;  
Ye brother Crows take warning all,  
For as you rise, so must you fall"

—Thomas Paine

September 27th, 1781

A lot had happened in the last two years. The war still raged all around Alfred, but it suddenly seemed to take a new turn. Instead of facing the Redcoats head-on in an open field and simply getting massacred, Washington decided to take a different approach. The Continentals hid in the woods and marshes, or anywhere else where the British would miss them among the foliage, and attacked them when they least expected it. They chose their battles carefully, and made them as short as was possible, in and out before the Redcoats even knew what hit them.

And the best part of all was that it was _working_. They were actually winning the war. All through South Carolina they had egged the Redcoats on, goading them into making stupid decisions that put victory in the Continentals' laps, fighting quickly then disappearing like ghosts in the trees. The British were helpless. They didn't know the territory like the Continentals, especially not like Alfred. He had met with the generals multiple times, picking out the best spots for ambushes and camp sites that even the Carolina natives could not. He felt a little bad for showing them up, but it really just came down to experience. He had lived, at one point or another, in all thirteen of the colonies, and could very easily recall locations from off the top of his head, which proved invaluable for the generals.

Of course, even if Alfred's spirits had been bolstered considerably by the prospect of maybe possibly actually _winning_ _the war_ , the fact remained that it was _still a war_. People were always getting injured and dying around him, and it hurt every time. Every single time. Sometimes it was a little pain, a stab of sympathy for what his soldiers were feeling, but sometimes it felt as if _he_ was the one with a bullet in his kneecap, or _his_ arm that was twisted in an impossible direction. At first, he thought that he'd never get used to it, though Francis insisted that he would. Maybe it would take a few years, maybe a few centuries, but it would happen. And eventually, it did. It was a bit of a relief, really, but it also scared him to no end.

Was he becoming numb to death? Was it becoming the _norm_? That shouldn't happen to anyone, he knew this. Strange things happened to people who got used to death. They became like Francis, or Gilbert, or ... or Arthur. Alfred tried to ignore that thought whenever it entered his mind. It seemed, however, that though the war was being won, that he should be happy right now, his mind began to dwell more and more things that he really didn't want to think about. Awful things. As much as he told himself that he would _never_ become Arthur, there was this nagging little voice in his head that kept reminding him of that one moment on the battlefield when he'd been frozen in terror as he watched Arthur, with that insane grin plastered on his face, as he butchered innocent men in a manner that _no one_ deserved to die.

Sometimes, as he slept, the most awful nightmares haunted him. He saw Arthur killing everyone he loved, one by one. Sometimes, he saw him killing _her_ , Katerina. He knew, deep down, that it really hadn't been his bullet that had ended her life. There had been so many soldiers on the battlefield that day, and Arthur had been on the complete opposite side, but it might as well have been him. But more than all of that, it was Kat's face that haunted him the most. That look as she realized that she was going to die. The pain of her death never went away.

It was for that very reason that Alfred came upon an epiphany: This war had gone on for far too long. So many people, regardless of their side, had died, and it was finally time for it all to end. The pain, the violence, the death. Washington agreed. With Francis and their French allies behind them, and Spain distracting them back in Europe and across the Caribbean, it was the opportune time for a final blow that would end it all for good. And what better place than one of the last standing British strongholds?

Yorktown.

Almost the whole of the Continental army, sixteen-thousand strong, were given orders to converge at the city of Williamsburg to prepare for the impending battle. The city was a buzz of activity amongst the soldiers and civilians alike as it was quickly transformed into a military camp, bristling with firepower. Washington was particularly antsy to get the whole operation underway, and some of his anxiety rubbed off on Alfred. Every day that they waited was another day that the Redcoats had to prepare.

But finally, though the time seemed to crawl like a snail, the day arrived. All of the troops had arrived, and fully prepared. Guns were loaded, supplies were delivered, and most everyone—it was awfully hard to keep track of sixteen-thousand people—was accounted for. They were as prepared as they would ever be. Washington stood in front of his men one last time, the tension buzzing through the air, and gave his orders: At sundown, they were to begin the march to Yorktown in two lines in order to hide their true numbers, and converge in the forest a few miles away, where they would set up camp and plan their next course of action.

Alfred was thoroughly convinced that this was the longest day of his very lengthy life. It was simply that he had nothing to do before sundown except eat his bland military rations—what he wouldn't give for a steak right now, or maybe ground beef smooshed into a patty, for some reason that sounded absolutely delicious right now—and make sure that his equipment was in order. By noon, he had done this no less than five times—checked his equipment that was, his rations had to be saved. It had worked as a fine distraction for a little while, but there were only so many times that you could count the bullets that would eventually find themselves lodged in various pieces of squishy flesh.

All the while, a permanent grimace was etched on his face. At least his stomach was keeping itself occupied, it was busy twisting his innards into knots. He swore that he would never get used to this, the pre-battle prep. He was right.

The only soldier who seemed even remotely happy was Francis, who sat in a corner of the camp, smiling and humming to himself. Alfred approached, and the Frenchman waved. He didn't take anything even remotely seriously, did he?

"How are you doing that?" Alfred asked, almost in awe of Francis' ability to form his face into the most peaceful, serene expression that he had ever seen.

" _Pardon_?" Francis said, looking slightly concerned. "Doing what?"

"Smiling", said Alfred, "Aren't you nervous at all, dude?"

Francis laughed then, in a particularly _French_ way. " _Oui_. I am shaking in my boots with fear", he said. Alfred wasn't quite sure if he was being serious or not. Francis was one of those men that simply couldn't be read, though whether that was purposeful or just his absurd _French-ness_ was anyone's guess. "I often find that appearing happy on the outside makes one more inclined to be so on the inside as well".

"And?" Alfred asked. "Is it working?"

"Not really", Francis shrugged, "But it can't hurt to try, non?"

"I guess not", said Alfred, smiling a little himself now. Surprisingly, he found that it almost worked.

Almost.

* * *

A lot had happened in the last two years. Arthur had finally been removed from that god awful ship—he still shuddered thinking about it—and actually posted somewhere at least a little more useful. He'd been stationed at Yorktown for about a year now, which he couldn't help but notice was far away from all of the combat in South Carolina. Possibly they were trying to keep him from seeing just how poorly the war was really going for the British. This was in vain, however, because he already knew.

It wasn't hard to figure out, child's play, really. He could tell that the Generals were trying to keep it from him, maybe to spare themselves from his wrath, maybe due to their own embarrassment. The British Empire had only lost one war in the last hundred years, after all. And you couldn't keep the state of the war from the country itself now, could you? Sure, you could try. You could fudge statistics and twist words around to shield the truth from the masses, but deep down, they knew. They _always_ knew. And so, Arthur knew it too.

He didn't know the details of their losing streak, of course, but he'd overheard some of the generals discussing a new strategy of some sort that the Americans seemed to be employing. Well, he _said_ overheard, what he really meant was 'put an empty glass on the wall that just happened to be adjacent to the room where a top secret meeting was being held, and try his darndest to hear exactly what was being said on the other side'. He couldn't make out everything, but he did soon realize just how dire their situation really was.

He'd known that they were losing, but this was really, really bad. Bad as in if they didn't do something soon, they might actually lose America, for _real_. It was a wakeup call of sorts. He didn't think that anyone, least of all himself, had ever even considered the possibility that America might in fact become independent. They had all figured that it was a small rebellion which would be over in a year tops, just a faze, really. But then they had held out for longer than a year, and they'd once again assumed that it would all be over in another year. And they'd said that the year after that, and the year after that as well. It was only now that they'd stopped thinking of it as a rebellion and began to consider it an actual war.

The generals seemed confused as to how they, gentlemen that they were, could possibly be _losing_ such a war. It was a stain upon their honor as military men. In Arthur's mind, it came down to basically three things. One, the Americans' new strategy. Arthur could only guess as to what it could possibly be, but it seemed to him that things seemed to go best for the Continentals when they caught the British off guard. If the Americans had realized this, then they were in trouble.

Two, the territory. It came down to the simple fact that the Americans had nothing to lose. They were fighting for their homes, their families, and just what was Britain fighting for? To keep an already estranged set of colonies under its thumb? Needless to say, their hearts and souls just weren't in it like the Americans' were. There was no comparison, really. And the simple fact remained that the Americans just _knew_ the territory better than the British did. Most had lived here their whole lives, and knew the best spots to set up ambushes and where to camp. The fact that they had someone who had been alive, living in America, for more than a hundred years certainly didn't hurt, either.

And of course, three, the infighting. Sure, Arthur was sure that the American generals probably bickered amongst themselves just like their British counterparts, but the British had raised snobbery to an art form. And of the Americans, many of their colonels and generals had previously _been soldiers_. They had actually fought in the trenches with the blood and death, listening to their friends screaming in agony. The British generals were gentlemen, and would have never stooped so low as to fight on the ground with the common rabble. No, they would, at best, be atop horses at the back of the fighting, occasionally giving an order, and at worst, in their tents drinking champagne while men died. The fact was that all the military was to those men was status back home in Britain, and they were constantly bickering over who would be the best commander, or who should lead this or that campaign, blah blah blah. Frankly, Arthur was sick to bloody death of those whiny little bitches. This was a war, not a soiree at Buckingham palace. They should really start acting like it.

As much as he hated to admit it, his little dip in the sea _had_ cooled his head. The sea always seemed to do that to him. If he was still as angry as he had been when he'd been dumped on that miserable little boat, then all of the generals would no doubt be very dead by now. Don't get him wrong, he was still pissed as all hell. If Alfred had had the balls to waltz into Yorktown right now (1), then Arthur would have no doubt punched him into the next century. But he wasn't mad at everyone now. Only the people who deserved it.

Even now, though in his somewhat calmer state, Arthur had certainly not resigned himself to failure. His honor as an empire was at stake, here. He hadn't legitimately lost a war in a very bloody long time, which might have been why he was an _Empire_ and not just a lowly little country anymore. Well, okay, there was that one little incident with the East India Trading Company in, where else, South India. But he didn't count that, because the Trading Company wasn't really Britain now, was it? The fact remained that if he couldn't keep a few simple colonies in check, then how could he possibly be able to defend his other holdings from the other major world powers?

But he would win. He was sure of it. He _always_ won. Because that's simply what it meant to be British, to pull yourself up be your bootstraps and just keep right on walking. Well, okay, maybe keep right on _conquering_ was a better expression, but basic idea. Sure, other Nations had super special things like land and resources, which Arthur had always had little of, and all he had at his disposal was his sharp wit and even sharper blade. But with only those two things on his side, he would win. That's how it was, and how it had always been. England would prevail. That's what he told himself, anyway.

The one problem with his impeccable philosophy was that now Arthur found himself backed into a corner with no conceivable way out. They were down to almost nothing. Just a few loyalist towns. Like Yorktown. They were sitting ducks out here in the gentle hills of Virginia, and the rebels were planning something, he knew it. Things had been quiet for the last few weeks, too quiet, and Arthur didn't like it one bit.

The only thing that he hated about his existence—okay, maybe there were _many_ things, but only one that bugged him constantly—was that he tended to soak up the feelings and emotions of his citizens surrounding him like a sponge in a rainstorm. If there was a famine, then he would be hungry regardless of how much he ate. If a disease was abound, he might very well come down with it himself, sometimes multiple times. This was no exception.

The British soldiers, though they hadn't been told anything either, knew that something was going to happen. As the anxiety and confusion passed through them like a wave, so too did it pass through Arthur, multiplied about a hundred times. He quickly became a nervous wreck, so much so that he couldn't think straight. Abound were the ideas in his mind as to what the rebels might be planning. They would bombard them with enough firepower, provided by their French allies of course, to knock the whole of Yorktown to the ground. They would scale the walls like spiders and attack them in their sleep. They would sneak in disguised as chickens and then—

Wait now, this had just become too silly. Dogs maybe, but chickens was just taking it a bit far. But regardless of the paranoid delusions harbored by the soldiers and by extension, Arthur himself, it was frankly making him a jittery bundle of nerves. And he absolutely bloody hated it. He couldn't eat, he jumped at small noises, and could hardly sleep more than an hour every night.

All of this may have been partially responsible for Arthur hitting his head against the bedpost when the noise startled him from a fitful slumber. It was a horrible grinding noise, coming from outside his window. Arthur flew out of bed. What could possibly be making that noise _this_ early in the morning? Then, pulling aside his curtain, he saw the cannons and blockades coming over the hill, and he gulped. The Americans' plan was clear now. They had come in with the big guns, and would be able to wait as long as they needed to to use them. One thing was certain: The Americans were coming.

Arthur almost gave up right then and there.

Almost.

* * *

It had been days, five days to be exact, since the Americans had pulled a full-blown siege on Yorktown. How they had done it, Arthur had absolutely no idea. Well, okay, he _did_ know how they had done it, but he simply couldn't fathom it. They seemed to have made the blockades, barricades, and anything else they might need to cover their arses in the safety of the forest, and then simply wheeled them out onto the field when they were good and ready. Using the tall, wooden structures as cover, the Americans then promptly began to entrench themselves into the ground outside the city.

Of course, knowing that once said trenches were complete that they would never in a million years be budged, the British had thrown everything they had at them. Bullets flew, cannonballs pelted through the air, but it was already too late. The trenches had been dug, and there was no unseating the Americans now.

Arthur had hoped, foolishly, that they would just stay there in their trenches, but of course, no, why would they do that? The Americans began to advance closer to Yorktown, building a _second_ set of trenches. Again, the British tried, but in a sort of defeated, half-hearted way, and all together, they probably hit three Americans. The problem was that their bullets had almost no chance of hitting their intended target from this distance, and to get any closer to the impenetrable set of trenches and barricades would be suicide. They simply didn't have the forces to withstand the inevitable hailstorm that would ensue if they stepped even a foot out of the city.

General Cornwallis, the man in charge of Yorktown, an irritating general with an obnoxiously high opinion of himself, initially scoffed at the siege. "We will outlast the rebels easily", he had said, and Arthur wished afterwards he'd had something to record his words and play it back to him later, when everything had all gone to hell, but alas, not for another ninety years.

The General very quickly changed his tune when he got word that a sizable portion of the French navy was floating just a few miles off of the shore, ready to block any new supplies from reaching the city, however. They would not be able to get any fresh water or food until the siege was over. On top of that, the soldiers soon discovered that what little supplies they had were old and stale. Arthur even found one bit of bread that had completely given into mold, and resembled a furry sponge more than a loaf of bread. They would have to do something quickly, or starve.

The one good thing about this truly awful situation was that Arthur was finally given something useful to do. Yorktown had several outlying defensive structures called redoubts, and it was imperative that the Americans didn't get their hands on them. He was given command of one of these redoubts, and told to prevent its loss at all cost. He was confident in his ability to succeed. Who better to have on the case than one of the original super soldiers?

Little did he know of what was to come.

It had been raining that day, the flash of lightning visible in the distance, and was looking to turn into a large thunderstorm in a few minutes. All of the rain had turned the bare dirt under his feet into mud, and Arthur cringed to himself as his boots kicked droplets of the thick sludge onto the back of his white trousers. It was absolutely miserable out here in the cold and dark, and Arthur shivered. He noticed that the other soldiers looked far worse off than he was though, and he doubted that even the Americans would try to launch a sneak-attack in this weather, so he sent five of them inside to get warm.

There were only fifteen men stationed at the redoubt, all that could be spared from the main defense. The remaining ten men patrolled around the structure, trying their best to keep an eye out for any encroaching danger. Unfortunately, the rain made it bloody impossible to see more than a few feet in front of his nose. Arthur felt like a sitting duck out here. He was wet, cold, and highly irritated. Now that he actually considered it, this seemed like the _perfect_ opportunity for a sneak-attack. The Americans could very well be hiding just out of sight right now, waiting for the perfect opportunity to catch them off guard. It would be easy, with the rain and gloom, they could hide in the trees, shielded by the dark sky, while the British had no idea what was about to hit them.

He later cursed himself for thinking this, because he had jinxed it, he really had. For at that very moment, no less than thirty men emerged from the fog that twisted through the forest trees and ran right into the redoubt without resistance. The British soldiers hesitated for a moment, unsure whether the men were friend or foe, for they couldn't see the color of the soldiers' coats. That was all of the time the Americans needed.

By the time Arthur registered that their coats were indeed blue, and subsequently panicked, three men were down. He fired blindly into the sea of blue in front of him, unable to tell the targets apart from each other. He wasn't sure if he'd even hit anyone, but the noise from his shot and the several others that followed it _did_ alert the other five soldiers inside the redoubt, who quickly emerged to see what the fuss was about. Arthur was about to begin barking out orders, but then he realized that the Americans had been ready for this. Three more men in blue emerged from the shadows on either side of the door, and quickly incapacitated the five men before Arthur was even able to take a single step in that direction.

And then the rest of the Americans were on them and Arthur found himself locked inside the pandemonium, just trying his hardest to stay alive. He might have taken a bullet to the shoulder at one point. And the leg. And the arm. But he didn't feel it. All he could feel was the rage quickly bubbling up inside him as it always did whenever he found himself in a battle, when all of the men on the opposing side turned abruptly into no more than targets who had to be eliminated as quickly as possible.

How dare these rogues use this horrible weather to attack! It wasn't _gentlemanly_. In fact, all of their tactics were simply not fair, and Arthur didn't like it in the slightly.

Then he was alone in front of the Americans like a wounded cat, still hissing in fury. All of the British soldiers who had just a moment ago stood beside him were either dead or incapacitated, and Arthur was just about to give into the anger, let it consume him entirely, enough to take out all thirty of the Americans like a knife through butter. But then, something abruptly stopped him.

"Arthur?"

He knew that voice. Of course he did. That voice could only belong to one person in the entire world, and he paused, just for a split second. It was enough time for the bastard himself to step out from the mass of blue and towards Arthur. His flax blonde hair was matted to his head by the rain and sweat, but of course, his cowlick still stuck straight up to the sky. The stubborn wanker. Despite the rain, his blue eyes still pierced through the gloom, the same color as his coat. Much to Arthur's disgust, he saw that the color suited him.

"What do _you_ want?" He growled, "Come to finish the job, have you?"

The boy didn't look angry, or bloodthirsty at all. He simply looked sad. He looked at Arthur, pity in his eyes, which just made Arthur even angrier. How dare this boy pity him, _him_ , the Great, Powerful, Invincible British Empire.

"Yes", he said, his head falling a little, a guilty child caught in the act. "But this doesn't have to end in bloodshed". He looked around at Arthur's fallen soldiers then. "Well, any more than it already has".

"I think, _brother_ ", Arthur spat, "That it's too ruddy late for that, isn't it?" He gripped his gun tighter, made to aim it, and all thirty of the Americans abruptly had their weapons pointed directly at him. He almost laughed. He'd like to see them try to kill him. Just try. But the boy put his hand up, and they relaxed, just slightly, still ready to shoot him at the slightest sign of aggression. "Just remember who dragged us both into this mess, because it sure as hell wasn't me (2)".

A crash of thunder sounded in the distance a second after lightning illuminated the boy's face. To Arthur's surprise, he looked old, older than he remembered, and _tired_. But still, undeniably a child. "I know", said the boy, "I was young and stupid and had no idea what I was getting myself into. So I'm going to put my gun down now, and you can shoot me if you want, because I probably deserve it".

Slowly, agonizingly, the boy set his rifle on the sodden ground, where it began to sink into the mud. Arthur did not put his gun down. "Why?" He asked, his hands beginning to shake with anger, "Why did you do it? Why couldn't you have just stayed small and young and done what you were told?"

The boy sighed. "Because I grew up, Arthur. I _had_ to. You didn't give me much of a choice". The rain fell on both of them, soaking Arthur to the bone. "And I saw the world that you lived in, full of adventure and danger and _people_ who were like _us_ , and ... and I wanted to see that world. I wanted to stand beside you, not, not be in your shadow".

"But you're just a child", Arthur cried. "You think you know everything. That you can make it on your own, that it'll be easy. But it's not! It'll change you, it'll cause you more pain than you think you can possibly bare, and then just give you more!"

"I am _not_ a child", said the boy, but that wasn't true. All Arthur could see was the little boy in the forest who had looked up at him with such admiration in his eyes, like no one ever had before. The little boy who had been too frightened to go inside a house that first night.

 _Alfred jumped a little, hair-trigger alert. "I..." He started. "It's just … I can't see the sky"._

Arthur held the gun up, aimed it directly at the boy, who still had that infuriating look of pity etched into his features. He had to do it. Had to pull that trigger. Because he had to protect this boy. Protect him from the pain and hurt that was his burden to bare. It was for his own good.

 _"_ _Arthur?" Alfred had asked through the darkness of the room above the pub in Boston, just a few days after the fire._

 _"_ _Yes", Arthur mumbled, half asleep._

 _"_ _What if it happens again? What if they try to kill us? I'm scared!"_

 _"_ _Hey, don't worry. I'll make sure that no one ever hurts you again. I promise"._

Isn't that just what he'd been doing all along though, hurting him? Tearing through him bit by bit, stabbing that sword through his gut? He had broken his promise. His gun drooped a little, but he shook his head, trying to find his anger wherever it had fled to inside of him and use it to do what must be done as he aimed again.

He had promised.

Arthur couldn't do it. No matter how much he willed his fingers to pull that trigger, he couldn't fire the gun. It fell from his hands, and splashed into the mud. Arthur sank to the ground besides it.

And as he looked up at the boy, his vision blurred by tears, he noticed something that he had never seen before: The boy was no longer a boy at all. He was a man. How had he never seen it before? The man stared back at him, who was wallowing in the mud, eyes filled with sorrow and ... and something else.

 _Arthur could have sworn for a second that he saw the stars reflected in them_.

He realized then that inevitable truth which he had almost touched that first night when they slept under the heavens: This man was going to be strong, and powerful, greater even than Arthur himself, and this was only the beginning.

Because Alfred had stars in his eyes.

* * *

A lone Redcoat stood on the rooftops of Yorktown, and the Continentals watched as he raised a white handkerchief over his head.

And just like that, the war was over.

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) Which is basically what they did.

(2) Well, actually, it kind of was. I've got a whole youtube video on my channel, which there _is_ a link to that actually works (holy crap!) on my page. But from Arthur's perspective, of course, it's not his fault at all.

* * *

 _AHHHHHH! One more time: I'll see you all next week!_


	20. Epilogue - The Homecoming

_OH MY GOD IT"S THE LAST CHAPTER THE BEAST HAS BEEN SLAIN I AM FREE! Haha, no really though, this ending is bittersweet, because never in my wildest dreams did I really think that I'd ever finish it. I thought that it'd just become another one of the dozen or so novels that I've abandoned over the years. But I'm so glad it didn't._

 _So, without further ado, please enjoy the final chapter of_ The Stars are Eternal.

* * *

Epilogue

The Homecoming

For the first time in, well, a very long time, Alfred knew peace. To be honest, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. But now, after a few months, he was beginning to remember. Peace was calm and quiet and ... a little disappointing, if he was honest. He didn't know what he'd expected, really. A fully formed country to just appear out of thin air as soon as that white flag was raised? If so, then he'd been sorely mistaken. These things took time, he realized this now. But if there was one thing that Alfred had a lot of, it was time.

The peace talks had only just begun, and the Continental Congress (1) had already had several very long, very dreary sessions of planning their demands. Alfred had been invited along by Washington—he was _America_ , after all—who quickly tried his best to explain the situation to the congress. At first, they wondered if he was pulling their legs. Then, when they realized the truth of the matter, they quickly became very angry. Getting a large group of highly opinionated men in one room could do that, Alfred soon learned. The congress demanded to know why they had been deprived of this very important information until now.

Alfred, who had been silent until now, spoke then. He told them how people had reacted to the knowledge of his somewhat ... unnatural existence in the past, and how probably less than one hundred people in the whole world knew that Nations even existed. Period. "If you'll forgive my boldness", he said quietly, nervous to be speaking in front of an awful lot of angry men who were staring directly at him, "It was just that, at the time, you really didn't need to know about it that badly. I was only a regular soldier, after all, no one important".

There was more discussion for a few minutes, but the subject was quickly dropped after that. They had bigger fish to fry anyway. A thing Alfred realized very quickly as he sat in that hot, stuffy room was that the congress loved absolutely _loved_ to hear itself talk. Alexander Hamilton talked for six hours about a financial plan, and every little detail of the proposed peace treaty was passed back and forth, discussed and changed, then discussed some more and changed back again. Alfred was pretty sure that he fell asleep at one point.

Then, finally, after several _days_ of bickering, the proposed peace treaty was ready. In a few months, representatives from both America and Britain—and all of the other countries that had been involved, of course—would meet in Paris to finally sign the damn thing. Alfred supposed that he would probably end up tagging along, but he didn't want to think about it at this moment. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Eventually, after waiting in line for a few minutes—there were a lot of people at the convention—it was Alfred's turn to sign the paper. He grabbed the quill from its pot of ink, and smiled briefly as he realized that it was an eagle feather. Putting the pen to the paper then, he began to write "Alfred Jones", but paused right after the 'd'.

It just didn't seem right, for some reason. Alfred Jones had been the name of the American Colonies. He was his own country now, and it almost seemed as if it deserved to be recognized somehow. So he stopped for a moment, the quill hovering an inch above the paper, and thought about it. He thought about the hard road ahead of him, and everything he'd lost: his innocence, his friends, his brother. But he also thought about everything he'd won: liberty, independence, and most importantly, his...

He had it. Carefully, slowly, trying to make his naturally untidy scrawl into something impressive, he scratched his new name across the surface of the rough parchment. Glancing at his handiwork, Alfred smiled, satisfied. It was perfect.

Alfred F. Jones.

After a few more minutes, everyone had signed, and things seemed to be in order, so the meeting was dissolved. Some of the men mingled for a while, but Alfred didn't. He didn't really know anyone and he was hot and tired. What he really needed was some air.

Not looking back twice, Alfred snuck out of the Boston courthouse and down the vast marble steps (2). Looking out at the city spread out below him, he chuckled quietly. He always seemed to end up back here, didn't he? It wasn't really a home, per-say, he didn't really have one of those, but he and this city had history. Some of it was good, some was very, very bad. He wouldn't have traded any of it for the world.

The city was even bigger now than it had been a mere seven years ago. Man, time did fly, didn't it? Alfred just stood there on those steps for a moment, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, just watching all of his people making their way through the streets that twisted around each other like a maze. Each and every one of them had their own wants and fears, their own lives, with families and friends all woven beautifully together into an interconnected spider's web of life. None of theirs, it was true, might have been as exciting or as _long_ as Alfred's, but they were all important, and all worth protecting to his very last breath.

"Al? Is that you?" Shouted a voice from the street below. Alfred looked down to the cobblestones below him, and almost couldn't believe his eyes. For there, down on the streets amidst the cluster of humanity was none other than Billy Carmichael, arm in arm with a pretty girl who's long, blonde hair caught the afternoon sun, setting it aflame with light.

"Billy?" He called, running down the steps to meet him. He looked well, his face rosy and his green eyes bright. It was a stark contrast to the last time Alfred had seen him in the war, when he was grey and fatigued and weary to the bone, haunted by that dead look in his eyes. The only thing that even vaguely concerned Alfred now was a new scar; a thin, white line that ran down the side of his cheek, but he neglected to mention it as they shook hands vigorously.

"It's been a long time".

"You look well".

"So do you".

"And who is _this_ lovely lady beside you?" Alfred asked, turning to the blonde woman, who smiled faintly. She almost seemed ... sad about something. Alfred wondered just what it was.

But Billy's grin was probably the biggest and broadest that Alfred had ever seen. "Oh, forgive me", he said, "Alfred, this is my fiancée, Ms. Elizabeth Carter. Eliza, this is the man who saved my life ... multiple times", he added, thinking on it briefly, "Alfred Jones".

Alfred took Elizabeth's hand and kissed it, trying his hardest not to laugh as the image popped into his mind of how Francis probably greeted women: by making out with said appendage and flirting horribly all the while. But, as he stood up, he realized that that name seemed familiar to him somehow, though it took him a moment to place it. On a hunch, he asked: "Elizabeth ... _Carter?_ " Carter was a pretty common name, so it could have just been a coincidence, but he wondered all the same.

"Billy's told me that you ... knew my sister". She began, her face looking more and more downcast by the second, "Katerina".

Alfred felt his own face fall then. Just that name was enough to ruin his previously pleasant mood. What a coincidence that her sister was going to marry Billy of all people. "Yes", he said, "Yes I did. She was ... she was one of my best friends".

"And you were there then, I suppose ... at the end?" It was almost a whisper, as if she could barely get the words out for fear of tears.

"Yes, I—Oh!" He said, remembering finally. "She told me something, at the end, something she wanted me to tell you, ya know, uh, if we ever met".

"Well, it must be fate then".

"She..." Alfred faltered, almost unable to continue himself. It was still so hard to think about her after more than two years. Did the pain ever go away? "She said that you were right, tha-that all soldiers die", Elizabeth's eyes began to tear up for real then. "But that she doesn't, heh, that she doesn't give a rat's ass".

He wasn't sure if Elizabeth had started to laugh or cry, probably some of both, for she put her face in her hands and began to make indeterminable sobs or laughter. Billy put an arm around her. "Are you alright?" He asked.

"Sorry", she sniffed, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "I'm fine. It's just that..." She paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "...Kat and I didn't always get along. She was ... strong, stronger than I ever was. Standing up to our father was easy for her, whereas I..." Elizabeth shook her head, clearly not wanting to think about it.

"I was jealous, I suppose. But I always loved her, and sometimes I don't think she knew that. No, she must have, right? I mean, we _are_ sisters after all. Isn't that what siblings do?"

Alfred was just about to nod solemnly, but paused mid-way. That _was_ what siblings did, wasn't it? Love each other unconditionally? And he realized then, quite abruptly, that _thing_ that he'd been missing, that had seemed so disappointing about peacetime: just how horribly alone he felt.

"It was so nice to see you two, and I am truly sorry about Katerina", he said, "But if you two dudes will excuse me, I think I need to go ... go see my brother".

As he began to walk away, off through the crowd, Elizabeth became confused. "Dude?" She asked Billy. "Is he Dutch?"

Billy laughed then, hard. He had the sort of laugh that shook the whole room, even if you weren't actually in a room. Elizabeth couldn't fathom why he did it, though. Maybe it was a sort of in-joke between them? "Yeah", he said, "Something like that".

* * *

Luckily for Alfred, he was 99.9999% sure that Arthur hadn't been shipped back to Britain just yet. After Yorktown, he'd been taken prisoner, they couldn't really kill him, after all, and one of the terms of surrender was that he and all of the other men the Continentals had taken prisoner be returned to England. But the Americans had still kept them for a few months, mostly to make sure that the British didn't go back on their word. Almost none of the Americans trusted the British farther than they could throw them.

At least, that was the official reason. Let's just say that sympathy for the Redcoats after a long and brutal—almost—occupation. For their jailors, however, it was personal. In a twisted sense of irony, the captured Redcoats were being kept in the very prison ships (3) that they had so unfairly put many of the colonists who couldn't afford to pay their taxes or looked at a British soldier funny. Most of their jailors now had either had a family member on one of those ships or been in one themselves.

Of course, this wasn't true of _all_ of the jailors. A lot of them were just sailors whose ships had been commissioned to contain the prisoners, but that was beside the point.

After making a quick stop, Alfred made his way to the docks. The last time he'd been here, it had been dark, and the middle of winter, at that, and he'd been tossing crates of tea into the harbor, so he hadn't got a proper look at the sprawling maze of boats and wooden platforms that stretched out into the water like they were reaching for something. The other side of the river, maybe.

As he wandered around, looking for a rowboat or the like to commission, he passed by the rope works and had to stop, if only for a moment. This was where Samuel Gray had spent so many of his hours, twisting rope and brawling with anyone stupid enough to get on his bad side. That had been more than ten years ago, now. Ten years since he'd taken his last breath. Funny how arbitrary time seemed when you had too much of it.

"Yer looking for a boat?" Someone, one of the dock workers asked, and shook Alfred from his reverie.

"Yes", he replied, and was quickly directed to a little wooden rowboat that could be his for the afternoon, only for the low, low price of ... nothing?

"You was in the war, wasn't you?" Asked the dock worker in a gruff, aged voice. Alfred was just about to ask how he knew, when he interrupted. "I can see it in yer eyes. She's yours for a few hours, jus' ... bring her back good and safe, alright?"

Alfred smiled. At least there were a few kind people in the world. "Thank you", he said, "I will".

So, slowly, navigating his way in between the docks and larger vessels with his miniscule boat, Alfred made his way out onto the river. The ship was only a short distance away, so it wouldn't have taken very long to get there even sans super strength, with which paddling the boat was like cutting through warm butter instead of water. To put it another way: he certainly wasn't going to get tired anytime soon.

But he took his time as he plowed through the placid waters, watching the sun dance a short distance away in the sky. The thought kept wandering through his mind over and over again: what would happen when he broke Arthur out of prison, and tried to maybe actually talk to him for the first time in years? Arthur would be pissed, no doubt. It seemed like he always found _something_ to be mad about, and being imprisoned for six months? That bit of hardship was ripe for the picking with complains and awful little quips.

Soon however, whether he was ready for it or not, the ship appeared on the horizon. It was an old Galleon, practically an antique, which was probably why it was here in the river. No one wanted to risk it in a sea voyage. Someone from the deck of the ship, just a silhouette against the sun, saw him approach and Alfred signaled. The man on the boat waved back and as Alfred pulled up alongside the much larger vessel, he threw a rope down for him to climb up with. Alfred hoisted his way up the side, passing the name of the boat, which was written in chipped gold letters: Old Bess.

The man on the boat—who, now that Alfred got a closer look, realized that he was no more than a boy, probably no older than seventeen—held out a sun-tanned arm and helped Alfred up the last few feet and onto the deck. It took a few moments to get used to the constant rocking under his feet, to which the boy laughed. "Haven't been on the sea much, have you aye?"

"No", Alfred admitted. The boy's smile was infectious, and a broad grin quickly spread over Alfred's own face, despite the fact that his stomach was beginning to feel rather queasy. "I suppose you have been", he stalled.

"All of my life", said the boy, "For three generations. Started with my grandad, Ethan". He shook his head, getting off track, "So what can I do for you today?"

"Right", said Alfred, his smile faltering. "I'm Private Jones, here on order by General Washington to have you release Major Kirkland". He produced a slip of paper with Washington's signature which he may or may not have snitched for this very purpose.

The boy tilted his head. "Major Kirkland?" He asked, "But he's to be released in a week, anyway".

"It's urgent", Alfred assured him.

"Okay", he said and, shrugging, began to lead Alfred down to the hold, where the captured soldiers were being kept. "It's funny", he said, stopping, "My grandad used to talk about his first captain, and _his_ name was Kirkland too". He grabbed the ring of keys that was attached to his belt and opened the thick, wooden door with a clunk.

Alfred snorted. "Of course he was".

Inside was very dark, and smelled like rotting humanity. Alfred had to pause in the doorway as his eyes and nose adjusted to the new environment. After a moment, he registered the small room with iron splitting it in half, the only light being a tiny porthole towards the top of the wall. He trundled down the last few steps, and grew suddenly paranoid that the door behind him was going to close and trap him down here in the foul-smelling air forever. But he shook himself. It was just a door.

The Redcoats, who had been the ship's only passengers for the last few months, looked up a bit as he entered, not so much because they were curious but almost as if it were habit, like some kind of ritual. They knew they weren't getting out of here for a while yet, but it had become habit to look and see if someone was coming to free them anyway. Some of them sat or laid on the floor, while some stood, huddled against the wall or pacing. One man gripped the iron bars feebly, like if he kept holding on for long enough then maybe it would just break. They all looked haggard and dirty, their once pristine uniforms turned brown and shredded, but most of all, they just looked tired.

Most of the men turned away after a moment, when they realized that he was not their ticket out. Alfred looked around, but he couldn't see Arthur anywhere. After turning to ask the boy if there had been some sort of mistake, however, his face must have caught the weak light of the porthole, for at that very moment one of the Redcoats who had been sulking in the far corner of the cell stood up abruptly.

"Oh bloody hell!" He cried, striding to the bars to get a closer look. "If it isn't Mr. Fucking America". Yep. That was Arthur all right. There was simply no mistaking him. Alfred took a few steps closer, just not quite so close that Arthur could have conceivably punched him through the bars, because clearly, he was not at all happy.

Arthur gripped the metal bars with both hands and stuck his head in between, almost like a wild animal in a cage. His face was still covered in dirt and blood, most of which had dried and flaked off by this point. It was probably the same gore from Yorktown, the thought of which made Alfred shiver. But under all of the muck, he was _definitely_ Arthur; Short and pissed as hell.

"Come to gawk, have you, you wanker?" He asked, practically spitting the words out. "Like I'm some new ruddy curiosity at the zoo? And you-you're just standing there, gloating, like some pathetic little ch—"

If he had finished that sentence just then, then Alfred would have turned right around and left him there to rot. For another week at least. But he didn't. Arthur had stopped himself. Maybe he saw the frightening flash of anger in Alfred's eyes, maybe he was simply too tired to continue. Either way, he struggled for a second, trying to find a sufficient substitute. Finally sighing, he growled: "You pathetic little ... shit". Weak, but it could have been worse.

Alfred almost laughed then. Regardless what he through at him: hunger, imprisonment, maybe even torture—he had no idea what went on on these prison ships—Arthur could somehow always find the strength to tell you off, all the while swearing like a sailor. It was admirable, really.

"Let him out", he told the boy, who began rummaging through his keys, the jingling echoing oddly through the small, heavy space. Arthur opened his mouth, no doubt to utter another biting remark, then promptly shut it again as he realized just what Alfred had actually said.

"Wait. What?"

"You heard me", Alfred nodded as the boy opened the door. "I'm letting you go".

Hovering just behind the now open door, Arthur danced from foot to foot. "This is some kind of really cruel joke, isn't it? You've opened the door, okay, but the instant I try to step through it you're going to close it in my face. 'Just kidding, back in the cage for you', right?"

"No"

"But ... you hate me", he almost mumbled, wallowing in confusion. "I'm your worst enemy. I almost destroyed everything you have". He paused, more bewildered than Alfred had ever seen him. "You _do_ hate me, don't you?"

Alfred didn't say anything. He didn't quite trust himself to speak. Truth be told, even _he_ didn't know. For a long time, he was so sure that he did, but now that he'd been through a war, seen all of the bloodshed and death, he realized that he'd had no idea what _hate_ even meant. Arthur knew what it was, to hate something or someone so much that it can drive you to do horrible, irrational things. Alfred didn't quite understand it. He didn't understand Arthur. But what he _could_ understand now was why he had done some of the things he'd did. Being your own country was hard, after all, harder than he could have even imagined.

So he settled on a non-committal shrug. "Are you coming?" He asked Arthur, who still hadn't moved. "'Cuz I can put you back in the cell, if that's what you want".

Arthur hurried after him, but didn't speak as they left the darkness of the suffocating hold behind and emerged into the sunlight. He seemed confused, floundering at this sudden kindness by an enemy, something he'd never in his one-thousand years on this earth experienced. But it was always hard to tell with him. For once in his life, though, he didn't have a rude quip or series of choice words ready to be fired at the most devastating opportunity, so Alfred knew that he must be really shaken.

They set off in the small boat, back to the city, trying to avoid looking at each other. Alfred didn't know what he'd expected, really. For him to free Arthur and suddenly become brothers again? Like nothing had ever happened? If he honestly thought that was how life worked, then he was frankly an idiot.

"Give me one of those paddles", Arthur said suddenly. He was still determined to not look at Alfred, and instead glanced out at the sea so tantalizingly close.

"What?" Asked Alfred, too surprised that he'd even spoken in the first place to actually register what he had said.

Arthur sighed. "I said give me a bloody paddle. You saved my ass from god-knows how much longer on that blasted ship, the least I can do is help you paddle a ruddy canoe".

"I only got you out a week early", Alfred shrugged.

"Well, that's one less week I have to spend wallowing in withdrawal and self-loathing then, isn't it?"

Alfred snorted in agreement. Neither of them said anything else in the few minutes that it took them to get back to the docks, but Alfred thought with a smile that at least a little of the tension had been lifted.

They made it back just as the sun began to dip its toes in the water. After Alfred tied up the boat he looked over to see Arthur sitting on the side of the dock, his feet dangling an inch over the water, watching the sunset. Alfred plopped down next to him, and both remained silent for a moment.

But it there was one thing that Alfred was quickly discovering about himself, it's that he absolutely hated silence. "I don't hate you", he said, "I never did".

"Really?" Said Arthur, after a moment. "Because I sure hated you. A lot".

"I think you made that pretty clear when you shoved a sword through my gut". Alfred laughed, shaking his head.

"I _am_ sorry about that", said Arthur quietly. "If there's anything this war has taught me, it's that whiskey and sharp, pointy objects really don't go well together".

"I'll bet not", said Alfred.

"Yeah. Don't try it. Learn from your brother's mistakes, will you?"

Neither of them said anything after that, but Alfred smiled. Brother. He had called him Brother. And so he was hopeful. Hopeful that maybe with time, they might be able to act like real brothers again. Maybe he wouldn't be so alone anymore.

And so they sat on that dock, watching the sun as it was swallowed up by the river and the stars came out overhead. Alfred grinned. It seemed as if the universe had finally decided to give him a little break, at least for a while. Because now, one hundred years after that little boy had watched the ship leave the dock, his brother had come home.

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

(1) The Continental Congress was pretty much the ruling body during the war, which was made up of representatives from each colony.

(2) I'm not sure if any peace talks actually happened in Boston, and I was too lazy to look. But here is the one moment in the whole story where I'm not going to let historical accuracy get in the way of where I want the story to happen because plot. Haters gon' hate.

(3) This is an actual thing. A lot of people were stuffed onto these giant, floating prisons and basically left to rot. A lot of people died on those things. Imagine being stuck on a ship crowded in with people, nowhere to go, smelly and filthy, with nothing to eat. Kinda sucks, doesn't it?

* * *

 _WHOOOOO! Don't worry, this is not the end, I'll probs do an afterward to talk about my experience with this story, because I really need to talk about it. So look for that over the next few days._


	21. Afterword

_Afterword_

 _Wow! I'm finally done. It feels weird to say that after such a long time spent writing. I started this in late February, and it is now July. That is insane! To put it lightly, I never imagined that I would actually finish this. The only things that I've ever finished writing are two screenplays, and those of you who have written a screenplay before know that they are_ a lot _less time-consuming than a novel, so this feels really bizarre for me, to say the least._

 _Originally, when I began writing, I planned to make this story sixteen chapters and eighty-thousand wards long, which is the typical length of a novel. Of course, then I actually did some research—the first four chapters were only done with my pre-existing knowledge with a little help from Wikipedia—and realized that it was going to have to be a little longer than that. One less battle was planned, and both "The End of a War" and "The Training Montage" didn't originally exist until I read about the Seven Year's War and Steuben and realized just how important they were to the story._

 _I have a full spread of paper hanging on my bedroom wall with what I had originally planned as the basic structure of the novel, which I'd done with both of my screenplays, and was shocked to discover the other day just how different it turned out to be. Part of this was me trying to fit the personal events of the characters with the right historical events, but part of this also had to do with several plot elements being entirely altered before they even hit the page. Many of the characters didn't even exist until I got to writing them down. Samuel Gray and Matthew Kilroy—who were actually real people! Look it up, it was the coolest find ever—and their subplot in The Massacre, McNally the Irishman, and even Ethan the Swabbie, who wasn't even given a name in my head until I decided that I needed to reintroduce him as the walking plot device, are just some of the few._

 _I'm also super glad that I was able to learn about the real events of the Revolutionary War. I've slowly discovered that what really happened was VERY different from what they teach you in school. In America, at least, we're taught that the Americans were this incredible fighting force that just tore through the eeeevvviiilll British at every opportunity because they wanted their liberty and freedom, dammit! I suppose for us in the good old US of A, it's easier to see historical events in black and white, we were good and the British were evil, the north was good and the south was bad, we were good and Soviet Russia was also (even more) evil (apparently). But this is really not the truth. This is why I love history. There are two sides to every story, and nothing is clear-cut, the world is painted in various shades of gray._

 _So what's next for me? Don't worry your butts, I'm not going anywhere. I may take a break for a few months, to catch up on my reading and try to get my research done_ before _I start my next project, which I'm not going to tell you all about just yet. I think I know what I'm going to do, but I'm going to hold off for just a while to take a break. I'll probably release another oneshot by the end of summer, something humorous—I need a break from all of the intense angst, because the next project's going to be even worse!—and something involving Francis, because I just can't write him seriously no matter how hard I try. He's too crazy! But we'll see if I actually get around to that._

 _Immediately, however, I've decided to take up a slightly different project. What I'd really like to do is start a podcast to read all of my stories out loud to you all, probably in an audiobook format. I'd also absolutely looovvveee to do a Q and A just so that I can talk to people about my work who also write. And just to get some things off of my chest about it. So totally PM me some questions that you'd like answered, and I'll make a recording and share it with you all!_

 _As of this writing, the podcast is available at Soundcloud and iTunes, whichever you prefer. I will most likely be unable to leave a link to it, as we've seen how_ that's _gone so far (Fix your links Fanfiction god damn it!), but if you go to iTunes, to your handy little search bar, and type in "AngryHedgehog's Fanfiction", you should find it. I'll check before I post this to make sure that this is all true and easy to locate, so if you're reading this right now, than all should be according to plan._

 _Hopefully I'll see you all there!_

 _It's most certainly been a trial, but I've had the best time writing this story! I'm kind of sad to see it done, actually, but this WILL NOT BE THE END! I'll see you all on my podcast, and at the end of the summer with a new story (which will probably be announced on the podcast at some point, if you still need a reason to go check it out)._

 _Cheerio!_

 _~Hedgehog_


	22. NOTICE

Hey everyone! It's been awhile. I just wanted to let all of my followers know that I'm (actually) starting another story now. Why am I letting you know? Because it's not going to be a fanfiction. This one's original. Yay! It will be posted for sure on fictionpress, and possibly on tumblr-same username, feel free to look me up if you so desire.

Just wanted to inform you of this recent development. Enjoy the rest of your day.

Hedgehog


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